That One Long Road
by WithinWhimsy
Summary: 4.1 Destiel. Dean's out of hell, Sam's going dark-side and the Apocalypse is in full swing. Rebekah is a hunter with very little luck and Castiel is wondering where his loyalties lie, torn between home and heart. The Winchesters and Angels are divided, demons united. Welcome to the Apocalypse – population swiftly decreasing.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**

This story takes place at the start of Season 4 (Spoilers). Dean is fresh out of hell, Sam is drowning his sorrows in Ruby and the Apocalypse is in full swing. Cas it neither here nor there with regards to loyalty to the boys and, as far as the Winchesters are concerned, all other Angels are just dicks with wings. Rebekah, a fellow hunter, is in the process of trying to track these two down despite not being aware of that fact and an Angel by the name of Anna is in the process of wiping every scumbag and slime ball of the face of the Earth. Welcome to the Apocalypse – population swiftly decreasing.

Fic follows the storyline of Supernatural from 4.1 onwards, with a few added extras of course. Destiel, rated M for consistent language, scenes of a sexual nature and graphic violence throughout. Disclaimer, characters are not mine.

_The names Sabriel and Lirael are taken from a series of books written by Garth Nix. _

Each Chapter will come with a recommended mini-playlist.

_Gabrielle Aplin – My Salvation_

_The Foals - Cassius_

_Muse- Supermassive Black Hole_

* * *

**Prologue**

"So you're telling me that that _duckling_ in a trench coat did all this?"

A sense of unease unfurled in Dean's abdomen, his gut clenching and unclenching. He felt sick, felt the bile rise from his stomach, burn the back of his throat. The heat of Pontiac, Illinois was all too familiar, a memory that wasn't set far enough in his past for the hunter's liking. He didn't like it one bit, the whole place felt unnatural. They were laid bare and vulnerable to the sun, the weight of which was bearing down on their backs like wave after wave of discomfort, Sam stripping himself of layers like an onion, Bobby removing his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow. But Dean had returned prepared, plaid tied around his waist, bottle of water the only solace he could find in what was an over baked world. Despite this however he was still writhing in his discomfort, shirt sticking to his skin, darkening the fabric at his back, neck and arms. He hated that place, hated it with a passion he didn't know he had.

"What d'you think Bobby – I did this?"

"No need to get snippy Princess-"

"Yeah Dean – we're just saying-"

Dean snapped, "No Sam – I'm _just saying._ What else could _possibly _have the juice to level a place like this?"

Sam scuffed his boot in the dirt, dust and debris rising around his ankles in a tan cloud. It was a lot bleaker than he remembered, the loss of tree cover leaving the earth open to dehydration, the long grasses that stroked their knees bent and broken from lack of water, thirst rotting their roots and leaving their stems cracking and crumbling beneath the tread of their boots. Dean shrugged off their bemused disbelief, an understanding that left him feeling all the more exhausted. He knew the whole situation was fucked – if he'd been told the same thing he'd have called the person a schizo and told them to get their head checked. But all he could feel was the heat of a hand against his arm as he was dragged through the earth beneath his feet, the piercing screech of a thing far greater than anything they'd ever come against before penetrating his ears and turning his brain to mulch. And they were all very, very small in what was a big wide world, a world that seemed even bigger and wider spread open as it was, trees falling around their feet as though the earth itself was bowing down to his return. It was an eerie welcome back, not one he'd hoped to receive.

"So – Angels."

"Who knew," Sam scoffed, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Dicks with wings," the eldest brother muttered, turning his back on the scene.

His hand inadvertently reached for his shoulder, fingers gently brushing the raised, highly sensitive skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. He felt branded –as though he didn't belong to himself, violated in a way he he'd never experienced before. Sure, he'd met plenty of sons of bitches in the past who'd carved into his flesh, left scars, left breaks in bones that had taken months to heal. But this – this was something else entirely. He'd never asked for that, never gone searching for it, never deserved it. And that fucking duckling had laid a claim on him he couldn't simply wipe away, as if he was someone else's property. Dean spat into the sand at his boots, tried to rid the taste of steel from his mouth, the agitation that bubbled in his gut like a disease. They didn't understand, none of them did.

But his baby glinted on his horizon, the only thing that had remained the same since his departure despite Sam douching her up with his techno shit. The sun licked at her curves hungrily, heating her black shell until she was too hot to touch. But he did anyway, ran his fingers along her body, imagining her purr, already longing for the sound of her engine in his ears to rid him of the ringing that had never quite gone away. It was fine during the day, the sound of Metallica and Bon Jovi drowning it out until he could kid himself it was never there – that it had never happened. But night would always come back round and Dean would find himself sitting up alone, Sam snuffling quietly in his sleep, Bobby snoring on the sofa, and he'd find himself drowning in it, wincing against it, his only solace coming whenever he'd sink himself into whatever alcohol Bobby had stashed away not far enough out of reach.

"Fucking Angels," he muttered, sliding into the driver's seat of the Impala, back already sticking to her heated leather.

He allowed himself to become immersed in the music, the iPod jack his brother had inserted in her long ripped out and binned, the steady thrum of the bass rippling through his body as it hummed through hers. Dean could see them in his periphery, Sam pacing the area back and forth with the old man, fingertips brushing splintered wood, the two hunters picking apart the place like they would any scene of a job. But this one was entirely different than anything they'd ever worked before, each of them being entirely too aware of the fact, Sam even remaining silent the entire journey instead of filling it with his mindless factual chatter. And it was different for a various number of reasons, things Dean had listed and ticked off one by one as he'd given the area a once over upon their arrival, not needing to pace the place like the other's did, the sight having been burnt into the back of his mind – the first thing he'd seen when he'd been reborn. It was different because there was nothing to gank, no ghost or werewolf or blood-sucking fucker to track down and kill. It was different because they were working with the cause of the scene and not against the thing that had floored an entire forest. It was different because there was no job to be had, nothing to work out save the mystery of his existence. And, last but not least, it was different because his grave lay no more than fifteen feet away from where he sat, a semi-permanent cross-shaped marker that discerned the scene of his death and, if that wasn't confusing enough, the scene of his rebirth.

Dean closed his eyes and rested his head against the steering wheel of his baby, her music delving into the very pits of his mind's eye, numbing him to a point where he didn't think he'd be able to stand again. He didn't hear Sam slide into the passenger seat nor the sound of an engine revving behind him, Bobby pulling his truck out from behind his black beauty and back out onto the road, both hunters content with letting the 'boy be' as the old veteran had put it so eloquently. And Dean was more than happy to be left alone, comforted by his brother's presence but not bothered by it, the younger Winchester hunkering down in his seat against the blinding heat, tearing layers from his body until his sat bare chested in the light of the sun, hair slicked back damp against his head, happy to join his brother in his numb semi-conscious state, window open, breeze ruffling his hair at its roots. They stayed like that for a long while, both brothers drifting in and out of sleep in a warm haze that teetered on the edge of sun stroke.

But it still managed to cut through even the deepest of lyrics, and Dean continued to squirm beneath his skin as the piercing sound of the Angel hummed in his ears, long after Cas had left his side.

_Fucking Angels. _


	2. Chapter One: Sayonara Dust Red

**Author's Note:**

**Rebekah.**

_Paramore – Misguided Ghosts. _

_Bastielle – Sleep Song_

_Of Monsters and Men – Little Talks_

_The Noise Grinders – Stuck at Home_

* * *

**Chapter One:**

_Casper, Wyoming. 3:33 a.m._

_Tuesday 16th September 2008. _

Floorboards creaked beneath her feet despite her stealthy steps, the bodies of one young woman and three dogs obviously far too much weight for the old wood to bear. She knew that if it came to it, if the floor beneath her did in fact give way, she'd be travelling a long way down into the dark depths of the basement she'd just checked, the cobwebs and dust that still matted her hair statement to such a fruitless endeavour. But there had been nothing, no sign of what she'd travelled over six hundred miles to find; no sign of what she'd travelled over six hundred miles to kill (or kill again). Rebekah took another tentative step forwards, carefully rounding a corner, taking her into the long and desolate corridor that ran alongside the ancient house's front room. The beam of the flashlight cut through the dusty air like a knife, blinding her as the light ricocheted off the mirror at the end of the hall and back into her eyes. Axel whimpered quietly at her side, small head against her leg, but she didn't have time to comfort the small creature, not when there was a hunt afoot. Her reflection shimmered once as she turned, beam of the torch piercing her chest. She tried to ignore the fingerprints in the dust, the drawn out streaks that had grown either side of her body like eerie wings.

"Fucking Angel," she muttered, scoffing. "Fucking ghost."

With one hand poised on the hilt of the sabre at her waist, the other holding the cold barrel of the pistol against her breast, she stalked quickly and carefully down the hall, keeping her back to the wall and remaining, at every moment, on her toes. Rebekah sank back into the shadows startled as the wind howled through the chimney in the living room, black ash and soggy leaves erupting from the hearth, the noise frightfully and uncharacteristically loud in a house so empty – almost out of place. The sound seemed to echo through and off the bare walls, walls that seemed grey despite their faded floral paper; though it could be argued that everything seemed grey when no life remained.

The family had been long gone (long dead more like), the last murdered fifty years ago on that very date. But it hadn't been the loss of the Jones's that had alerted the young hunter to the possible job – oh no. It had been the deaths of the four local boys that had flagged up the job, the four young idiots who decided to test how haunted the house actually was; despite the warnings, despite the fencing, despite the locks. And when the half-moon had come into being on the 7th, each and every one of them had hung from the rafters of the house, corpses testament to the demise of the old family – well, one Jones in particular.

Beck reached the end of the hall, a ghostly white light illuminating her face in a pallid glow. With her sleeve she wiped the grime away to get a better look, seeing only blue eyes haunted by the glare of the flashlight, a gash on her forehead bleeding openly from a fall she had taken earlier in the basement. But then… then there was another. Because, after all, the boys had not taken their own lives. For this Rebekah was most certain.

The once silent house erupted with a tirade of noise and movement, everything seeming to occur within the contents of a breath. The young woman was momentarily gripped by fear as her face was no longer the only one to be seen in what was left of the mirror, two dead and entirely bleak eyes staring at her from out of the abyss. Her breath misted in front of her as she forced herself to exhale, the condensation on the pane of glass in front of her crystallising into fine ice as the droplets of water in her breath met with the frozen undertones of the spirit's aura. A girl – not much younger than herself, a once pretty creature now reduced to murder in a desperate attempt to seek help, even company. She would not harm her, for it was not women she killed, but Rebekah was beyond rationality. Instinct – instinct is what keeps you alive.

The young hunter whirled round, sending a shot glancing off the wooden banister of the stairs as the woman before her disintegrated. Her Pack barked and howled as their prey dematerialised, leaving them with nought but dry air to snap and bite at instead of the semi-material being of a spirit. Rebekah turned, fingers hesitantly running over the crudely scraped 'Leave Now' that had been left for her in the dirt of the mirror, her own wild eyes now (thankfully) the only two staring back.

"We don't' have much time."

Beck rounded the corner and sprinted into the living room, her Pack hot on her tail as she began searching through cupboards and through cases for the item she was looking for, the thing that would banish the poor spirit back where it belonged. A locket – a little golden necklace containing a lock of her hair – a mother's wretched keepsake of a daughter she lost but made little effort to save. A locket that tied the spirit to the earth and it's home, despite the fact that the youngest Aston had burnt the young woman's body three days ago in the hopes that that would be the end of the girl's rotten story.

"Fan out. I need this locket found. You know what it looks like."

She may well have been talking to herself, but she had faith in her animals and their ability to gather the general gist of things. Paws scraped against fabric and plaster and wood as dogs swarmed the room, jumping up on tables or digging through the rotted foam of armchairs. A bark from her most recent addition sent her dancing to her right, a lamp smashing into fragments smaller than rice grains as it hit the wall where her head had once been. She pulled the iron sabre from its sheath just in time, parrying a knife and fork to the side, slicing a dictionary in half before skewering the rather surprised spirit though its middle, sending it away to wherever it is spirits go when they find themselves up against their natural kryptonite.

Stealing herself a breath Rebekah set herself back to work, rifling through a draw at the very bottom of a chest of drawers; family photos, old receipts and discarded pieces of paper being the only things she managed to discover, her search ending abruptly as soon as she realised there would be nothing of use to find there. She sank back against the cabinet, gun balanced precariously on her knees, as she watched her Pack at work tearing the house apart, understanding very well why the spirit of the house would be so pissed off. After all, she'd be pissed if strangers broke into her family home and ransacked the place. She sighed, gently stroking the barrel of the gun as one by one her companions gave up their fruitless searches, the youngest standing to attention at her feet with yellow couch sponge surrounding his salivary jowls, long streams of spittle sliding down his face and onto the floor by her boots. She ruffled his ears softly, pausing as a semi-familiar figure appeared over the little boxer's shoulder.

"Just let me help you Christina," she said boldly, right hand clenching the grip at her side, left hand slowly making its way towards the gun at her knees. "It's all we want. To send you back. For you to sleep."

She rolled to the side, clutching her little boxer to her chest as a vase smashed against the cabinet at her back, forcing her to shield her eyes from the explosion of sharp debris, one particular needle-like little fragment embedding itself in her arm, making her swear. She dusted off her face and reached for the gun, the spirit materialising only a foot or so away, poised and ready. Rebekah's hand hovered over the weapon, her eyes remaining on the dead girl's face. Her lips were pressed into one hard thin line, sweat beading on her brow as they silently faced off against one another. In the end, the hunter retracted her hand.

"Christina," Beck whispered, the spirit hissing at the repeated use of its name. She tried again, "Christina. This _has _to stop. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help."

She slid across the floor as the girl lunged forwards, arms outstretched as if to grab her. She missed, though not before the spirit had scored three long and incredibly deep scratches across Beck's face, making her scream. Dogs barked, a howl erupting from Alistair, as the hunter found herself trapped, the ghost's hands tangled in her hair, dragging her backwards across the floorboards as though she was some sort of hunting prize or an animal ready to slaughter. The rafters of the ceiling sped by one by one, remnants of the rope that had hung the boys still there long after they had been cut down. Christina Jones' ghost didn't harm women – that was what she had been told. If she lived through it, she'd hunt down the obviously mistaken son of a bitch and demonstrate exactly how much harm Christina's Jones' ghost could actually do.

Beck wriggled in the girl's grasp, one hand supporting her hair at its roots to try and ease off some of the pressure, her eyes watering with the effort, her other hand trying in vain to reach the sabre that lay at her underside. The dogs leapt around her uselessly, the little boxer even attempting to save her by clamping his jaws round her bootlaces and pulling, though this only resulted in the knots coming undone and her left boot coming off in his mouth. Her face stung where she'd been scratched, a salty metallic taste sitting heavily on her tongue and choking the back of her throat where tears tinged by her own blood had leaked between her open lips. She brought her hands up, giving up on all hopes of unsheathing the weapon at her side, and circled the wrists of the spirit who'd begun the process of unwinding a particularly short length of rope – rope meant for _her_ throat.

_It's raining heavily outside, pelting the window panes in a way that makes it seem as though stones are falling from the heavens and not water. The vision blurs – shudders. The memory is tainted. Blood covers the walls in splatters but no – there is distortion. The walls are covered in flowers. Floral wallpaper, newly applied, hiding what lies beneath. A woman cradles a bear in her arms, bent double in front of the fireplace. She sobs. The noise echoes through time and through Recall. She drops the bear – beams of light slicing through the blinds. Daddy's home. There are footsteps on the porch, the sound of heavy duty boots, the distant clink of glass bottles. She panics. The bear disappears into the pocket of her apron. It cannot be seen – he would not allow it. From around her neck she removes a locket, the gold glinting in the light of the car's headlamps. He must not find it, he cannot. She lunges forwards, unscrewing the back of the clock on the mantle. The front door slams shut. _

Rebekah shook her head, pain searing through her scalp as she tried to shake off the memory. A loop of rope constricted her neck, choking her, making her scream. She looked up into a mass of black matted hair and wild eyes.

"I'm here – to help –"

The spirit pushed her forwards, yanking her back across the floor by the rope around her neck as though she was being walked like a dog, the noose her collar and the rope her lead. She turned onto her back, the air knocked from her body, freeing up her side. In one deft (but highly awkward) move she freed the sabre from its sheath, the sharp iron cutting through the rope, Beck falling back against the floorboards as she tried to regain what little breath she could. Christina turned, screeching like a banshee, casting the rope aside as she whirled on the young hunter who was still floundering on the floor.

"Sky," she croaked. "Salt circle. Salt circle!"

Beck rolled to the side as the ghost's fist came down, splintering the wooden boards of the floor, opening up a black hole that would lead fifteen feet down into the basement below. Her breath caught in her throat as Christina trod down on the girl's chest, crushing the air from her, ribs seeming to crack under the pressure causing her to scream like she had never screamed before. An ice cold hand encircled her throat, squeezing the life from her as she wriggled beneath her grasp.

"I. Don't. Need. Your. Help."

Rebekah hissed and, with her right hand, brought the sabre up and, once again, skewered the spirit through its middle forcing it to disappear with an enraged shriek, the sound splitting even Alistair's ears, the hunting veteran having to shake off the noise like the fleas that had plagued his fur not a month ago. Rebekah moaned pitifully, dropping her weapon to pull herself up, using the column of the fireplace as a crutch, the mantle offering her some stability as she wavered on her unsteady feet. The room swam madly, all colours of grey inverting as she attempted to offer her brain the oxygen it was so cruelly deprived of, only managing to strain her damaged ribs.

"Sky," she muttered breathlessly, "Salt circle."

Rebekah Pulled the cork from the container on the dog's collar, the collie sprinting round and round her master at a practiced pace, a perfect salt line forming wherever she went. And the canister, as usual, emptied all too quickly, leaving the youngest Aston with a semi-complete salt ring, forcing her to sacrifice her iron blade to complete the protective circle. Alistair, Sky and Axel all jumped inside the ring, all careful not to disturb the fine white grains that would protect them from the coming storm. Beck leant back against the wall and allowed herself a breath, careful not to inhale too deeply for fear of how many of her ribs were actually broken. A punctured lung was _not _something she wanted to deal with in the middle of a job.

She rolled onto her side against the wall, Pulling the back of the clock off, the small pane of wood shattering into fragments as it hit the floor. As if it had been the sign she had been waiting for Christina appeared at the very edge of the salt circle, fists clenched at her side, teeth bared, eyes wild as she paced the outside of the ring, all three members of the Aston Pack shadowing her every move, Axel even barking at her whenever she got that little bit too close. Rebekah delved inside the back of the device, fingertips brushing cogs and metalwork before she finally found what she was looking for.

"Don't you touch that. That's mine. Give it to me!"

The locket sat in her palm about the size of a large grape or a damson, all manner of pattern on its front worn smooth from prayer, a mother's fingers rubbing it's golden surface in the hope it would bring her dead daughter back (not that she'd really gone anywhere). All manner of things around the room began to break in the girl's frustration, the mirror in the hall imploding, sending reflective shards scattering across the floor of the hall and the living room, lamps smashing, floor boards cracking. The television in the corner hissed and buzzed with static, the single bulb that hung from the roof flickering on and off before turning off completely, the glass and the filament crunching under the force of her anger sending glass raining down over all their heads. Rebekah emptied the contents of the necklace into her hand, a small lock of black hair tied with blue ribbon sitting comfortably between her thumb and forefinger. From Axel's collar she removed the little silver lighter… and then all hell broke loose.

"You cannot! You can't! You won't! Give me the necklace! Give it to me now!"

She flicked open the lid, illuminating herself in the warm and fuzzy glow of the flame that flickered in her hands as she ignited the fuel, the flame licking the strands of fine hair hungrily. It hadn't been fed for what seemed like months, and the fire nourished itself impatiently, consuming what was left of Christina Jones in a matter of seconds. Rebekah's eyes flicked upwards as she dropped the hair, allowing it to burn itself out on the floor at her boots, silently observing with a vacant expression the murderous girl burn into oblivion at her feet. At the back of her mind she saw the real Christina Jones, faded photographs of a pretty young girl with a blue ribbon in her hair on a swing, her brother pushing her as high as he could despite his small size. Case files replaced photographs, police reports of a little boy, Christopher, drowned in the pond, unable to swim. A family torn apart – a father turned to drink. What else could he do in his anger but beat his only daughter with belts and boots, a mother looking on unable and unwilling to come to her aid. Newspaper reports – a young woman, Christina Jones, hung from the rafters of the attic in a suicide attempt, died in hospital hours later. Body buried in the local cemetery, father burns all evidence, mother becomes depressed and withdraws herself from the outside world. Who would notice their absence when they suddenly disappear? Who would question their motives when they are found hanged together from the rafters in the attic?

But Rebekah could not find pity for the creature that burnt at her feet in a shrieking, screeching mass. Christina Jones had died a long time ago, all this was was an empty shell that looked somewhat like her. She'd killed and killed again, and somewhere, down the line, she'd lost her place in Heaven and carved herself out a sink hole in Hell. She closed her eyes as the last ember died, the piercing white light filling the house, smashing the windows of the living room. Rebekah bent down carefully, sheathing her sabre, shouldering her duffel bag, before gathering her Pack, her gun and her stray boot and leaving the way she had come in, through a front door that no longer stood on its hinges.

"Sayonara you evil son of a bitch."

_Sterling, Nebraska. 11:47 a.m._

_Saturday 20__th__ September 2008. _

"Rebekah Aston where the hell are you?"

Rebekah lived alone in the Aston house; she had done since Joe had passed. Why Jake still insisted on treating her like a child would always baffle her, though she found it was always nice to know someone still thought of her as their little girl. Though why Jake still didn't think to find her in her room she would never know. Joe had made sure to place their rooms exactly where they had used to be, the only difference being he had not rebuilt the old nursery. The nursery would have been a reminder of what had happened that night, but not only that the room would have gone entirely unused. Rebekah did not plan on reproducing any time soon, and Jacob had his wife and child and a place of his own. So, Joseph had made all the rooms that little bit bigger, and that served her very well indeed.

As usual she had already Seen him coming; she'd already known that he was paying her a visit. She was now so in tune to her brother's patterns of behaviour and the composition of his mind and life she could breeze in and out with no difficulty at all. She'd already laid the table for three, for his wife and child were in the car, the little girl being far too young to sit up at a proper chair. The chicken was cooking in the oven and the corn and the potatoes were on the hob and ready to boil, all of them timed exactly to his arrival. She knew Jake; she knew he'd walk through that door and just know. Beck sighed, flicking a pencil through her fingers as she waited for the door to slam shut. Jacob was used to the behaviour by now, used to her knowing things before they happened. It had made their lives easier on more than one occasion, winning the family a little extra money here or there or had saved at least one of them from a nasty accident. But Jake didn't like it, thought the whole thing was unnatural. He'd never breathed a word of this to his sister and Rebekah knew he loved her more than anything, but she'd Seen the conversations he'd had with his wife in bed at night whilst Beck had sat drinking a beer fifteen miles away.

"Where do you think I am?" she shouted down from her room, leaning back in her chair.

"Becky I swear to God -"

"I'll give you one guess Jake. Tisn't difficult – even for you."

Rebekah could hear her brother's boots tread heavily on the wood of the stairs, the old planks creaking under his weight. There was another set of feet following behind him and, knowing that Sarah and Ruth were waiting in the car or at least in the living room, she knew he'd brought Sky along for the ride. Axel lifted his head, black liquid eyes meeting his master's in a barely contained excitement, his tail wagging and thumping against her lovely white bed sheets.

"Oh go on then," she sighed, folding her arms across her chest.

Her hunting dog hit the floor with a bang, making her wince as he lolloped his way over to the door. He never ceased to amaze, that dog got banged around so much it'd probably cripple even the strongest of men, yet that dog never seemed to feel a thing. Rebekah smiled as he wagged his tail, waiting patiently at the door. She could hear her brother on the landing, the only one in the Aston Clan that had not been born with the gift of silence or who, like Beck, had had it drilled into them.

The youngest Aston turned her chair on its heel as Jake walked through the door, Axel literally pouncing on poor old Sky as soon as she came into his line of sight. She nodded her head in greeting to her brother as he closed the door behind him, leaving the old dog to suffer at the paws of her younger boy. She found that Joe has used to dress more practically than her Jake, Joe always wearing jackets and jeans and big old boots that would always help him get the job done. Jake dressed as he worked, smartly and cleanly, his clothes always looking as pristine as the day he'd bought them. There wasn't a speck of the country on him like there was on her, no cattle hair on his lapels or hay in his hair like there had used to be.

"Do you have any idea how long I have been lookin' for you?"

"You didn't have to look far Jake, this _is_ my room after all. Where'd you think I'd be?"

"It's a big place Beck, you migh'a sold a lot of the land but findin' you is still as difficult as findin' a needle in a haystack."

"So the last place you look is my room?" she smiled at him amused.

"You know what I mean Becky. You could'a been anywhere."

Jake leant back against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest seeming to mirror her own stance. They could hear the dogs' claws scraping against the wooden planks of the landing outside of her room, asking to be let in, but her brother made no move. He looked much paler than the last time she'd seen him though thankfully it was no through ill health (though in her head Rebekah could not decide which was the lesser of two evils). She doubted her brother had left the office in a long while, at least not whilst the sun was in the sky. She did pity him, though his mind-set was probably the logical one to have in his situation. He had a family, a wife, a young daughter and another baby on the way. He was settling down into the life he'd created for himself, and she found she couldn't criticise him for that. However, that was certainly not _her _life – not one she'd choose for herself anyway.

"New shoes Jake?"

"Did you know we were comin'?"

"Course I did," Becky said, getting up and letting the dogs in, "I always know when you're comin'."

She didn't dare Pull the door, not in front of her brother. He only sighed and sidestepped quickly as Axel came gambolling in, followed by Sky hot on his little heels. Sky was an old girl; having worked the farm for Lord knows how many years. One would think she'd retire, but the collie entered herself into the family business to join Axel and Alistair and was the final piece of Rebekah's puzzle – a salt dog, the perfect circle drawer. With that in mind however, it was still a mystery how an old girl like Sky managed to keep up with them all.

"Dinner in the oven?"

"As always."

"You makin' sure them vegetables aren't boilin' over?"

"They have a couple minutes left on 'em."

"What's tomorrow's weather like?"

"Sunny and breezy till lunchtime till we get a spot of rain."

"Horse Racin'?"

"Dusty Red."

"And the-"

"Jacob Aston, you did not come all this way to cheat on the races now did you?"

"I came for the chicken actually."

Beck loved Jake's smile, she swore he inherited it from their mama. She very rarely got to see it. But he was now grinning like she had never seen him grin, taking a step towards her and embracing her in a hug so strong he reminded her of Joe. They hadn't seen each other for at least a month or two, Jacob being all busy with work and family and Rebekah out on a hunting trip to get rid of a near local ghost problem. She found the distance between them almost unbearable, their lives so connected yet at the same time so far apart. They were from two different worlds, and although Beck found herself lonely at times she knew her isolation was for the best. She would never dare ask him to re-join her in her field of work; such a thing was far too dangerous for him and his new family. She found company is the hunting dogs she'd been left with and the ghost that passed through every second Tuesday of the month, though this could never really replace the warmth of living, breathing kin. But seeing him as he was, smiling and bright and happy seemed to throw them back a good few years, back when Joe was alive and hunting and they were holding down the fort. He'd always smiled back then, and that was how she swore she'd picture him, without the weight of responsibility.

With a deep breath he let her go, holding her at arm's length, the smile now touching his blue eyes. Her brother ran his fingers through her long brown hair, pulling her head forward and planting a quick kiss on her forehead like only a big brother would.

"You have our mama's hair," he sighed wistfully.

"You always tell me that."

"I just like to remind you," he smiled, the look on his face changing. "After all you were born with so little of it-"

"Oh shut up Jake-"

Brother and sister split as the dogs came barrelling through again, Sky chasing Axel up onto the bed where the two creatures disappeared beneath the blankets. Rebekah swore under her breath at the paw prints, again when she realised Jake's attentions had been diverted. He leafed through the papers on the desk hesitantly, almost not wanting to touch the leather bound journals for fear of the curse that he believed sat within their pages. Images, photographs and endless pages of Joe's messy scrawl that she used to find as difficult to decipher as the Latin that seemed to be printed neatly on every other page were now splayed across the table, Jake's fingers hovering over them like flies. There were photos of Joe with kills, not the types of things you'd think you'd see like moose or bears or wolves, but pictures of Joe with Alistair standing over the burnt remains of a Wendigo or a grave or over the body of a werewolf. They were dark, some downright sickening, but they were pictures of Joe doing what he loved and Beck treasured them as much as any other surviving images she had of her brother.

"Still readin' this?"

"I never stop – you know that."

"How did it go?"

"Without a hitch. It was the textbook salt and burn the remains type thing – sort of."

"Anyone get hurt?"

"No one. Just your average hauntin'."

He scoffed, flipping the books closed with a thump. "Bullshit Beck – just look at your face!"

"It's nothin'," she muttered, waving him away. "A few scratches that's all. Nothin' I can't handle."

She could hear her brother grumbling under his breath, something he always did when he wasn't happy with a situation, something that always made her smile.

"Jake."

"What?"

"The vegetables are boilin' over."

Becky found it was nice to have dinner with people instead of dogs, even nicer to eat with real people and not the ghost - though she didn't sniff at the company, she was friendly enough. Jake seemed to enjoy the chicken as usual, it was their mother's recipe after all, and though the vegetables had boiled over they were still more than edible. Rebekah got to hear news about life outside the confines of wheat, windmills and Wendigos, about the economy and politics and about news that didn't centre around mysterious disappearances – news she didn't even know existed if she was totally honest. What she often forgot to remember was that there was a big wide world out there, not a world centred on the mysterious goings on in Nebraska or her surrounding states; that presidents were being elected, wars were being fought and people were dying of natural or man-made causes – not because there was a Shape Shifter in the area. And it was sort of nice for her to go back to normality, at least for a little while.

During dinner she'd watched her sister in law try and function, watched her as she'd sat a bread roll on her bump or tried to lean over herself to reach for the salt. Sarah was getting big, really big, and it would only be a few months until they were expecting their little boy and she'd find herself becoming an Aunt once more. Ruth would have a little brother to look after and her brother's family would be complete again, another Clan of Aston's to carry on the bloodline. Ruth would be coming into her Senses any time soon, just like she had done at that age, and when she was of age Rebekah would teach her niece how to See (if Jacob allowed it). The little tiny human in her sister in law was even more reason for Jake's life to remain as normal as possible. Though her little hunting job was fairly small scale compared to their family in the West, she was hyperaware of how much danger Jake's visits actually put him in – how much danger it posed him and his family. If anything were to happen – if anything were to follow him home one day… well she knew she'd never forgive herself.

The house was quiet once her family had left, the hustle and bustle of normality leaving behind an emptiness she couldn't quite put her finger on. For a reason she didn't quite understand her brother had left Sky with her, unusual considering the old hunting dog often travelled home with Jake to protect his part of the clan, but she put it off as old habit and began locking up the house, checking the salt lines and traps downstairs, redoing some of the lines beneath the doors for Heather wasn't due for another month or so. It wasn't unlike Jake to forget hunting things – normal life things he was good at remembering but when it came to hunting life Jacob was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. He often left Sky with her for a few days, phoning up when he got home in a panic because he'd forgotten where he put her, calming down immediately when she'd bark in the background at the sound of her master's voice. But that was Jake – and that was why she loved him so much.

When the phone went off at ten to ten Rebekah thought nothing of it, believing it to be Jake ringing up about Sky, all in a frenzy because baby Ruth was asking after her. Rebekah rolled over in bed, switching on her lamp and sipped some water from her glass as she checked the caller I.D. She frowned at the unknown number, bringing her knees up to her chest and placing the mobile on top, watching the blue light of the screen flash on and off three times before dimming completely. She counted in her head, a 'Nebraska' being a unit of measurement in their family, and waited for the phone to begin buzzing again, all three dogs having gathered around her bedside, eagerly awaiting the call. On her third 'Nebraska' the phone began ringing. She picked up.

"Aston family Private Line. Who's speakin'?"

"I never get tired of your country twang – do you know that?"

"You son of a-"

"You're a sound for sore ears Beck."

"Speak for yourself Shane, I ain't seen you in at least-"

"A year?"

"Or more," she scoffed, a wide and entirely genuine smile lighting her lips. "And what – pray tell – has you callin' a young lady like myself at this hour?"

"Well young lady – I have a job for you."

An hour or so passed like lightning to the young girl, an hour spent talking animatedly to her second cousin as though no time had passed between them. The hands of the clock on her bedside table ticked quickly by, her Pack giving up on their hopes of news and retiring for the night, Alistair posted by her bedroom door, Sky at the foot of her bed and Axel curled up on her pillows, paws at her shoulders. The Astons chatted for a good while about simple things, things outside the realms of their professions, of family and of dogs and of fuel prices. And when the clock struck half eleven the conversation took a more serious turn, talk revolving around hunting, of the job and what it would involve, of what she'd have to sacrifice.

"It's a big job Beck – are you sure you're up for it?"

"The job – yes. The deception – not so much."

"It's the only way he'd let you go Beck. And you know how much we need you for this – we can't and we _won't_ go in blind, not with a Coven like this. In the old days he'd have joined us but-"

"I know Shane," she sighed, stretched an arm out above her head, almost displacing the dog that had draped itself around her neck, "you don't have to say it. I know. Joe would've been in there-"

"Like a shot," he breathed, though she could hear the smile in his voice, fond memories almost always seeming to be able to dispel the sadness that forever lay heavy in the pits of their stomachs. "And Jake would have been right behind him."

"Now there's just me."

"Now there's just you."

"How many of us are there?"

"Ten if you count in Lil, but I doubt if she'll come with us. That's still a strong nine – well eight and a half if you count the newbie."

"We've all gotta' start somewhere," she muttered under her breath matter-of-factly, though she couldn't help the irritation she could already begin to feel bubbling up inside her. Yes, it was true they all had to start somewhere, but a Coven of old and incredibly skilled Vampires was not the place to do it… unless you wanted to get yourself killed.

"Fair point. We'll sort out the details and who's who when you get here anyway. That's not important for now. Just get your ass over here as soon as possible – there's a lot of prepping to do and we need your Sighty-stuff to do it."

Rebekah sighed, "You know it doesn't w-"

"Work like that? I know. But here's hopin'."

She smiled, "I'll set off first thing in the mornin'. Jake's left Sky with me, so I've got all three."

"That'll be good, we're gonna' have one hell of a Pack Beck."

"It's gonna' be one hell of a hunt," she managed to laugh; nervously biting her tongue once she realised it had gone on for a little too long.

"Beck – are you sure you're okay with this?"

"Yeah, yeah I'll be fine," she assured, waving away his concern with her free hand, Axel snorting loudly at her ear as he shuffled to get into a more comfortable position around her bony shoulders. "They're not my favourite-"

"I know."

"But a hunt's a hunt and I'm in."

"I was hoping I'd get to hear you say that."

_Sterling, Nebraska. 7:13a.m._

_Sunday 21__st__ September 2008. _

The air outside was crisp and fresh, tantalising her taste buds and sensational to her senses. The young hunter finished loading the bed of the truck, setting the dogs up on the back seats before locking up the house, stepping back to check if she'd left any lights on or windows open. The bathroom window on the second floor was ajar, something she quickly fixed with a deft Pull, though she decided to do a round of the property all the same just to make sure she hadn't missed one.

Everything was still pretty much packed from her trip to Wyoming, resulting in a very quick and speedy departure. She'd left a quick message on her brother's answer machine, telling him of her plans (leaving out the hunt, the Vampires and the imminent danger) and that she'd be with her cousins Shane and Siv and that he could contact any of them if he needed her and all of the other comforting things she could think of interlaced with the usual 'I'll stay safe', 'I'll eat plenty of vegetables and drink lots of water' and the 'I promise I'm coming back. Feed the chickens whilst I'm gone though.' He'd get it when he'd wake later that morning, and by then she'd already be a third of the way there and far too far away for him to pick her up and drag her home.

She took one last look at the house, drinking in the scene. She'd caught the habit from Joe back in his hunting days, for he always said you never knew when you'd next see it (or if). She couldn't help it, and she knew how much it pained Jake to see her stand in the footsteps of her brother, back against his truck, his dogs in the bed, his pistol in her jeans. Rebekah shook her head and slid into the driver's side, fingers caressing the worn but firm material of the steering wheel as the engine guttered into some sort of life, plumes of exhaust leaking around the wheels like trails of fog. It was a big hunt – a huge job. Though she hadn't been given the exact math she knew that this was one of those 'hunts in a lifetime' things the oldest of her kind always went on about – the jobs that only ever came round once in a blue moon. The educational potential for her was astonishing, and getting to work alongside the family she hadn't seen in years was only another plus. The outlook was good – or at least she hoped, so with thoughts of ice cold berry ciders, Great Danes and machetes fresh on her mind, Rebekah pulled off the drive and started off her journey down the abandoned highway, the virgin light of dawn still young in the pastel sky that yawned above her head. With Joe's pistol down the back of her jeans and Oasis playing loud over the radio she bolted down the road feeling far less alone than she'd felt in a long, long time. And with that feeling in her chest, she decided it was a good day to drive – a very good day indeed.


	3. Chapter Two: Pick Me Up Bambi

**Author's Note:**

**Rebekah&Meredith / Dean&Sam**

_Recommended Soundtrack:_

_Rusted Root – Send Me On My Way_

_The Black Ghosts – Full Moon_

_Goldfrapp – Little Bird_

_Oceanlab – On a Good Day_

* * *

**Chapter Two:**

_Route 41, Sterling, Nebraska. 8:38 a.m._

_Sunday 21__st__ September 2008. _

Rebekah wound down the window and felt the cool air flood over her sun warmed body, the wind picking her hair up and tossing it around her face as she barrelled down the abandoned highway, the long grey road stretched out before her like an unravelled length of ribbon. Around them corn husks reached towards the sky, their furry spires stroking the clouds that floated lazily by on wind currents, the invisible pathways twisting and turning on the great highway of the sky, its azure bleakness yawning above her head into nothingness. As she came to the crest of a hill the air above the road would shimmer silver due to the heat of the morning sun, the road disappearing in places as though liquid mercury had been spilt across the baked tarmac. The smell of the country flooded through her open windows, immersing her in a homely comfort. She was alone, yes, but the scents of her world clung to her, the smells of cow dung, fresh hay, sweet corn and Jake's aftershave worn like badges on the lapels of her shirt, permanent reminders of home.

Beck smiled as she regarded her companion, his ears flapping wildly around his face, a grin so wide he'd catch as many flies as her bumper. Saliva trickled down his jowls, flying backwards like string as the wind caught it, some of it splattering against the back windows of the truck, others lost to the highway. When he spotted her looking at him he closed his mouth a little, slightly embarrassed at being caught looking so damn happy and carefree. Axel turned in his chair, glancing quickly at Alistair and Sky in the back, the Alsatian standing to attention as usual, the old girl lying down across the back seats with her head in her paws though, if you bothered to notice, her eyes moved beneath her lids, her ears twitching at every sound. Rebekah shook her head at her boy and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his ears quickly before returning her hands to the wheel. When she looked again, his head was back out the window, spittle cutting deep rivulets through the dust on the windows.

Kilometre after kilometre was eaten up by her wheels, the vast countryside unfolding around them, corn and crop fields unfurling into vast grounds of grazing beasts, the green and brown manicured lands reaching out into oblivion, the raised land in the distance stroking the belly of the sky on the horizon. Nothing about the roads changed, they were simply long strips of flat cutting through even flatter land. Rebekah found driving dull as anything, but the journey was not so. She loved watching the land fly past, the wind caressing her hair and her face, planting kisses on her temple if ever she dared lean out her window. The whole place smelt thick and familiar, a strong and heady perfume that clung to your clothes. No matter how many times you showered in foreign lands the scent of the country would still cling to you, woven into your hair like braids and covering you like a second skin. You could take the girl out of the country but not the country out the girl – that was what they always said.

At around quarter to nine Rebekah received another call on her private cell; unusual she thought considering the conversation she'd had last night regarding details. The young hunter sighed and, careful to make sure the road was clear, bent down to pull the earpiece from the draw beneath the dashboard, plugging her mobile into its cradle as she waited the allotted time. Three rings then silence, then another three before picking up.

"Aston family Private Line. How can I help?"

"Nebraska?"

"You have gotta' be kiddin' me," she scoffed, feeling her face light up. "Who else is it gonna' be?"

"Force of habit I'm afraid," the other woman laughed down the phone. "Where are ya'?"

"Forty One. Just got into Sterlin'. Why?"

"Pick me up?"

"Mer – I don't think that's a good-"

"Idea? Probably not. But I'm bored Beck – real bored."

"Mer-"

"Don't make me beg Rebekah Aston cus' I will – you know I will."

Beck slowed down to forty five as she entered her hometown, cattle barns and grain and water towers long behind her, farming buildings and old colonial farmhouses replaced by bungalows with white picket fences and two story family homes with lemonade and swing chairs on the porch. She nibbled her lip, hearing her best friend hum down the phone only adding to the weight of the decision. Did she want her to come? Selfishly – of course she did. But was she selfish enough to be that…

"Mer?"

"Yeah?"

"The job I'm workin' on at the moment is-"

"Dangerous?"

"Yeah and-"

"Perilous?"

"Well I guess-"

"Beck – please?"

She'd be killed. Oh God she'd be killed if she even looked at one of them the wrong way. She wasn't strong enough, she wasn't trained – she didn't even know how to load a rifle properly. And, with all this in mind, why was she still turning left down Washington Street? Rebekah pulled up at number 725 at exactly ten to nine, forehead on the wheel as she cursed herself over and over again. The little white and brown bungalow seemed far too 'normal' in a world like hers. It had a normal drive with an entirely normal basketball hoop and a normal truck parked in front of a garage that probably didn't contain the weapons arsenal hers contained at home. It was a little paradise – Suburbia in the middle of a farming nation, a little oasis of part time jobs, fences, dog walkers and kids playing in the street. And that was what Meredith Parkes should have been doing, walking the dog, doing her hair, going out and meeting her friends in Tecumseh less than half an hour down the road. Instead, Meredith Parkes wanted to join her best friend on a hunting trip because her normal life, what she was certain Jake would have given anything for her to have, was 'boring'.

"You've got five minutes."

She wouldn't let her near anyone or anything dangerous. She'd stay away from her cousins, stay away from the hunting dogs, away from the guns and the knives and the bombs and the scythes and everything else that had a sharp edge or that contained gun powder or that could explode or infect. She'd wrap Meredith in bubble wrap and keep her in the cupboard under the stairs and feed her soft food and –

"What am I doin'?" She moaned, banging her head off the steering wheel.

She watched as a backpack slid onto the drive, followed by a carry case and a pair of wellington boots. Then appeared a twenty four year old the size of a sixteen year old, clawing her way beneath the garage door because leaving out the front entrance was obviously far too easy. Her short brown hair had been tied back in a crude ponytail – either an attempt to make her look older or simply because she hadn't had time to shower that morning. She'd call it her 'hunting hair' and Rebekah would smile at the innocence of it all, knowing full well that it didn't matter how you had your hair on a hunt, if you couldn't use a gun or tell salt from sulphur you were as good as dead. The longer Rebekah observed her the more she despaired, the more she wanted to drive away and leave her best friend standing in her driveway wondering what she'd done. She struggled with her cases as she loaded them into the bed of the truck, Beck watching her in her review mirror – making no move to help. She didn't want to stand next to her and dwarf her with her five foot eight, making the parallels between her world and the world of 'Pixie' Parkes all the more apparent.

"You're gonna' to get yourself killed," she muttered as her friend slid into the passenger side, Axel offering her a kiss which she hesitantly took from chin to cheek.

"I'm not that-"

"You hunt – yes I'm aware. And yes you aren't that bad," she sighed as she pulled off the drive, making a U-turn in the middle of the road before setting herself back onto the main route. "You're fast and smart and honestly sometimes I swear you're the best Stalker I've ever met but-"

"Beck-"

"You hunt Faerie Meredith!" She snapped. "Like me – you hunt Faerie. And trolls and goblins and pixies and nymphs are all well and good but when it comes to the big leagues – you haven't got a chance Mer – I'm sayin' this as your friend."

She allowed herself to steal a glance at the girl at her side, the girl she'd grown up with. She saw a toddler in a flowery pinafore, a little girl with bunches in her hair in her school uniform – a small and frightened ten year old hiding behind a plant pot because the pixies at the bottom of her garden were pulling her hair. She'd always been small and so, so breakable, and in her twenties things hadn't really changed that much. Meredith Parkes was a pretty little bookworm with her head in the clouds, not the solider that sat beside her in the driver's seat.

"I'm not goin' after anythin' Beck – don't be ridiculous. I just wanna' tag along for the ride. You don't actually think I'd be goin' in there with you?"

"I'm just makin' sure."

"Scarin' me out of it more like," she muttered, staring out the window as they left Sterling behind, the truck obediently following the long length of Route 41 as it began to unfurl once more before them.

"You know I only want what's best for you Mer."

"You sound like my mom," she groaned.

The next half hour or so passed by in silence. Rebekah didn't dare break it with music, resorting instead to resting her head against the metal of the door column, right arm outstretched, fingers splayed in the wind, her left hand lazily resting on the wheel as they continued their journey down what had to be one of the straightest roads she had ever had the 'pleasure' to drive. Meredith seemed content to do the same, her mousy hair now down and feathered around face as she rested her head on her folded arms on the dashboard, breeze playing with the light strands and making them dance. Every now and again Beck would observe her out of the corner of her eye, watching her as she explored the space she had, the foot well a gaping hole around her legs that barely took up any room at all. She'd play absently with the feathers of the dream catcher that hung from the review mirror, rifle through old case files that sat shoved and forgotten in the shelf on the passenger door. Forty five minutes into the journey she resorted to organising them, alphabetising them, dating them, putting them into categories so that if it ever came to it the information would be readily available instead of lost within piles of loose papers and faded photographs.

"What's the job you're workin'?"

Beck looked up from the road, gone with her own thoughts, surprised to hear the usually quiet girl say something. Axel lifted his head in the back as his master rifled through her bag and dragged out a map of Nebraska and her surrounding states, passing it awkwardly across to her companion who spread it out on the dashboard in front of her. The map was covered in marker scribbles, biro footnotes and symbols and numbers, all of them relevant to her clan's past hunts in the area. She pointed to one particular mark, a faded biro circle that had been redone in blue marker.

"We're going to Brookfield in Missouri."

"Don't you have family up there?"

"Yeah – it's where we're headin'. My cousins have a huntin' lodge just outside Brookfield, and there's some sort of gatherin' there. I ain't got a lot'ta details, but from what I've gathered it's a big job. They're draftin' in."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise but said nothing, simply following their route with her fingertips, bypassing dot after dot and circle after circle, some of them marked on by Rebekah, others by Jake, most of them by Joe.

"What's the-"

"Vampires Mer. We're huntin' Vampires."

She felt a funny sense of pride when her companion didn't make a sound, though she wasn't exactly sure why. Part of her thought Meredith's initial reaction was unnatural – the fact was the girl failed to react at all. She simply nodded her head as though she understood, and continued to study the map as though she'd made it her personal goal to remember every road, hill, crescent and house from Sterling through till Brookfield.

"Does that not bother you?" Beck asked finally, genuinely intrigued.

"I've been with'ya before when you hunted one – why would now be any different?"

Beck snorted, "Not a Coven Mer."

"Well – whatever."

"We'll be spendin' the day in Rock Port – just so you know," Beck offered in an attempt to change the subject. "Do you fancy a night out? I haven't seen you in ages."

Her friends face lit up slightly, much to Rebekah's satisfaction. "As in coffee shop and a book night out or drinkin' heavy and getting' wasted night out?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm guessin' the latter."

"You'd be guessin' right," she grinned.

"So-"

"I've gotta' See for them – that's why they need me. I can't drink anythin' but a lil' water every now and again for the next few days. Now or never Mer-"

"Keep your blood pure?"

"Mhmmm."

"So – the Aston Method?"

"Ha! Not quite. I won't be drinkin' that heavy Mer considerin' we've gotta' get to Saint Joseph tomorrow. Just enough to feel – not enough to forget."

"Isn't that your mantra?"

She threw a sideways smile at her friend, a girl busy flipping through an old Vampire case file she'd pulled from the organised pile at her feet, fingertips skimming the fine text of police reports and Rebekah's own tiny handwriting.

"Doesn't it depend on what mood I'm in?"

"I guess," Meredith muttered absent-mindedly, her attentions now wrapped up in unexplained disappearances, car crashes, body bags and kill counts.

The rest of the journey was pretty quiet after that, all levels of awkward animosity now absent from the truck. Rebekah knew her friend well – hell she was more of a sister to her than anything else. She was a shy, reserved being, introverted beyond anyone she'd ever met before, much preferring her own company than the company of others. But the girl was easily influenced and had an awful addiction for the type of life Beck led, 'a life off the leash' she called it though Beck never understood why. She had a leash alright – at the end of the day you had to trade freedom for something. But Meredith was beyond that, far beyond the fragile, naïve, pretty little thing people often saw on the outside. Underneath the doe eyes and the pink lips that marked her as innocent was a creature with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, facts and all manner of things. Tell her to do one thing she'd do the opposite, expect her to behave a certain way and she'd surprise you. And when that girl got hold of a book magic would happen, and those pages would be devoured like a naked flame to a batch of straw. And there it'd sit, knowledge amassed over years of reading, writing and research, all collected behind the bright blue eyes and the sweet smile – an arsenal of information. Beck could ask her anything about any one of the beasts she hunted, whether it be how to kill a Hobgoblin, how a Wendigo is formed or how to weaken a Vampire, and the girl would know. She was the only person, Rebekah could safely say, who knew everything there was to know about everything.

So in the time they had left together with regards to their journey into Rock Port, Rebekah allowed her friend to consume file after file of the cases at her feet, knowing how much it meant to her that she was allowed to step into the very fabrics of her life, even if it was just via the printed word or through handwritten text. The journals were another thing and, despite their friendship, they were things no one outside of the Aston Clan had ever had the chance to come into contact with. They were Joe's and no one else's, and that was how she intended for it to stay. Every now and again Mer would sigh, exclaim quietly under her breath or mutter a comment along the lines of 'how terrible', 'poor woman' or 'what a shame' – though nine times out of ten she'd utter something that sounded like 'interesting' or 'outstanding and often even 'brilliant'. And that was why, on the first day of kindergarten when she'd told the girl in the flowery pinafore what her family did for a living, they'd become friends immediately. Because the little girl in the flowery pinafore wasn't scared – she was morbidly and marvellously curious.

_Highway 29, Missouri. 8:38 p.m._

_Sunday 21__st__ September 2008. _

The road from Illinois back up to South Dakota was a long one, but not the longest they'd ever driven. They'd driven further for a lot less, and when Bobby had a lead you could bet you ass something was up. The mood in the car was something Dean hadn't really experienced before, so when it got too awkward he'd simply lean forward and turn the music up, drowning out his own thoughts as they sped up the highway, headlights illuminating the sun-baked tarmac beneath his wheels. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his brother shift in his sleep, his arms crossed protectively over his chest, head resting against the window pane, eyes flickering beneath his lids. Sam was light when it came to sleep, easy to wake, always alert – like a freakin' cat with a sleep disorder. But, when it came to him sleeping in the Impala, he slept like a rock.

Dean took the nearest exit, turning off their route and onto the road that'd lead him to Rock Port. They had a lead to pick up there, something that only added to their journey time, but it gave them a night off and that was something the Winchester boys believed they needed. They'd done the journey before a few days back, back when Dean had got out of Hell and he'd had to travel all the way back to find Bobby and then his brother. Then he'd travelled all the way back to his crash site with Sam and Bobby in tow, the crater and the ring of felled trees a far more permanent headstone than the wooden cross that had still somehow managed to survive the coming of Castiel – though that was probably down to some religious shit that Dean really didn't wanna' think about. And so Bobby had left the boys to it and driven back to Dakota a day early, and now it was their turn to pick up leads on another case and find their way leisurely back to Bobby's in (how the old geezer put it) 'their own time'. And to the oldest Winchester at the helm of his ship – that meant an overnight stay in a motel, a seedy bar and the possibility of getting laid.

He pulled into the Greenfields Motel at around five to nine, the great green neon sign bathing him in a sickly and all too familiar haze. He'd never admit it but he kind of liked the motel signs, all big and bright and easy to spot after a night out. They gave off a comforting glow whenever you'd forgotten to close your curtains or shut the blinds, and even then the light still managed to find and opening – like a night light you didn't exactly have to pay for, a different colour everywhere you went. He parked the Impala opposite to the front office, shaking his brother awake none too gently before sliding out the driver's seat, slamming the door shut on an incredibly dazed and bleary eyed Sam who looked as though he'd already had a few too many to drink despite his sobriety. Dean poked his head through the window as Sam stretched himself out, long limbs awkwardly filling what space they could as joints cracked and he yawned.

"Rise and shine Sammy."

"Where – where are we," he sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

"Rock Port, Missouri," the eldest chirped.

"Already?"

"Hey," he shrugged, fingering the keys in his hands, "I put my foot down. Sue me."

The bow-legged hunter was engulfed by the white light of the front desk as he disappeared through a pair of double doors, leaving the youngest alone in the car. He stretched his legs, wincing as his knees groaned in objection, legs that had grown comfortable to being bent for the past few hours, legs that now didn't seem to like the thought of straightening out. He wiggled his toes in his boots and rubbed feeling back into his ass (making sure no one was looking first), pulling his mobile out of his jean's pocket to check for messages despite already knowing the outcome. _Nothing. _She wouldn't call – he knew that, it wasn't her style.

"Room 18 - extra beer in the mini-fridge. If that doesn't say successful trip I don't know what does."

"Yay!" The youngest sighed, opening the car door with a shove. "My night is made."

"Sarcasm isn't gonna' get you anywhere. Now hop to it Bambi – I wanna' hit a bar before we turn in."

Dean was a dick – but he was right. His body didn't seem to be his own from his waist down, legs completely unresponsive to any order or direction, going left when he said right, going right when he said left and moving backwards when he wanted to move forwards. Yeah – he knew what he'd look like to anyone glancing out of their motel window, cheap blinds split to satisfy their curious appetites – the nosy bastards. He'd look like a drunken man with two left feet and a drug addiction, hopped up on acid and seeing the world upside down. However, his world was most certainly right side up for the time being – though he had to admit it was tilting a little to the left now that Dean had returned from Hell and Angels were involved and - well it wasn't exactly but then again when _was _his world ever right side up?

And so Dean and Bambi Winchester made their way up the steps to their room, Sam tripping once, seeking refuge against an old Ford Pick-up that remained strong and sturdy behind his back, keeping him upright, scaring the living fuck out of him when a monster of a dog sprang forth from the bed of the thing, barking despite his attempts to calm it. He swore repeatedly as it barked and bayed at him, ducking (stumbling) into the shadows as a bolt of light appeared halfway down the walkway, a crack in the door half blocked by a figure as it stuck its head out to check out the origins of the noise. The dog quietened almost immediately, and Sam skulked away with his tail between his legs to the sound of Dean's raucous laughter and the melodic sound of a car alarm going off somewhere in the distance.

_It was going to be one of those nights._


	4. Chapter Three: Oh Sammy Boy!

**Author's Comment:**

_Recommended Soundtrack:_

_Metallica – Enter Sandman_

_Pendulum - Watercolour_

_30 Seconds to Mars – Night of the Hunter _

_Ellie Goulding – My Blood_

* * *

**Chapter Three:**

_Rock Port, Missouri. 11:55 p.m._

_Sunday 21__st__ September 2008. _

They were in trouble… serious trouble.

The streetlights flickered overhead as the young hunter and the even younger stalker made their lonely way down the sidewalk, never more than a few centimetres apart, their arms crossed over their chests to keep the cold out. Their incessant flickering unnerved her more than she even wanted to admit to herself. She tried to shake off the feeling, though as the wind picked up she found she had to bury herself even further into the oversized leather jacket, wrapping a protective arm around a dithering Meredith who shivered inside the soft cotton of her cardigan. There was something wrong – she could feel it.

The bar had been her usual stop, a dirty little place on the very outskirts of town, a small hidey-hole off the beaten track that you only ever knew about if you were in the business. No carpets, no rugs, no curtains; just bare wood and windows, a few tables and hard chairs – a bid to frighten off the 'normal' punters that roamed the streets at night looking for a comforting place to drown, though they were not welcome at The Bottle Neck. However, Rebekah and her little party had been made most welcome, a warm embrace from the owner and the owner's son and daughter marking their entrance as seas of Metallica, tobacco smoke and gunpowder washed over them as waves of familiarity, all nerves lost as she and Meredith settled into the usual 'Aston Corner' and ordered their usual drinks, carving yet another line onto the ever growing mass that marked their table-top, each mark a reminder of hunts and travels past. Even Mer relaxed a little, enough to pull a book from her pocket and settle into a cushion in the very corner of their bench, eyes scanning page after page of something or other in Latin that Rebekah didn't quite understand.

And they'd spent hours like that, lulled into a divinely false sense of security as drinks were drunk as often as breaths were breathed, friendly chatter mixed with free peanuts and trail mix, old grizzled men swapping stories with the most unlikely of listeners, Mer even offering her own in return, earning herself multiple pats on the back by the veteran hunters who thought the little creature was delightful. But now Rebekah and Meredith were frighteningly pissed and alone on the Lord's day, Mer stumbling awkwardly down the curb whenever she lost her footing, her baby blue ballet pumps charming in comparison to worn carpet and biker boots but incredibly impractical with regards to uneven tarmac and rain puddles. And Beck couldn't get rid of the feelings that had haunted her the last few blocks, eerie thoughts of shadowy things that had even managed to breech the crafty liquor defences she'd painstakingly built all evening.

But she could not See, and her Sight did not come to her. And – as far as her alcohol-addled brain was concerned, if there was something worth worrying about she'd have warned herself. Ergo, no vision – no problem.

"_Something's wrong, shut the light  
Heavy thoughts tonight  
And they aren't of snow white  
Dreams of war  
Dreams of lies  
Dreams of dragons fire  
And of things that will bite, yeah."_

The song had been played repeatedly over the old jukebox at the bar, a typical hunter song sang by a typical hunter band with a typical hunter message, the whole thing laced with a giddy undertone of irony. And Beck broke the silence with that very song, words echoing out over the empty street as she attempted to ease her nerves with the comforting nostalgia that came from the lyrics, the type of thing Joe would sing to her in the back of the pick-up to help her sleep, nights where she'd be left alone with one of the dogs as protection whilst her big brothers went out and battled and killed the very things that appeared in the lyrics, the things that crawled out from beneath her bed or from the shadowy depths of her closet. Meredith picked up on it immediately and joined in with her own off-key bell-like tones, slurring the odd word, the hazy green glow of the 'Greenfields Motel' neon sign appearing as they rounded the corner into the nearest alleyway.

_Sleep with one eye open  
Grippin' your pillow tight  
Exit light  
Enter night  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land_

Meredith Parkes had always been one step ahead of her, even when they were children. She was faster, she was smarter and she was far quicker – though when it came to instinct and intuition the young Aston had the upper hand. But it was speed that saved the little tiny human from becoming another crime statistic, and no amount of instinct could have saved the hunter from her impending fate, her body connecting heavily with the chain link fence that had run the length of the last three blocks, the metal wire cutting rivulets into the skin of her back as she fell to the floor, her elbows cracking painfully against the tarmac.

"Fuck – Mer. Run!"

Above her head streetlights sputtered into life before plunging themselves into death, sparks raining down over the heads of the girls as bulbs burst in their sockets, small fragments of glass collecting in the creases of their clothes. Meredith remained frozen as their section of the street lurched into complete darkness, her back against the wall, her hands clasped over her chest as though she was praying. Even in the dark Beck could see her eyes were wide, her expression that of a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun. She rolled onto her back and sat up, her hand coming away from the back of her head wet, sticky and far darker than it had been before, the skin on her back burning as though she'd been whipped. But there was nothing – no one around.

"Meredith – get the fuck outta' here. Now!"

But she didn't move. Rebekah did not know if it was through loyalty or through fear that the little creature refused to obey her commands, but the hunter was too drunk and too frightened to care which.

"Meredith! Go!"

And then she moved, faster than anything Beck had ever seen. Like a true to life Cinderella a single blue slipper remained behind, the other having been kicked off a little further down the alley as the little Stalker rounded the corner and disappeared, Rebekah letting out the breath she'd been holding ever since she'd got it back. Being alone was one thing, but having to watch her back and protect the petite little bird in her charge would have been near impossible – especially when whatever it was that had been shadowing them for the last few blocks had the ability to throw her full body into the nearest fence. Meredith knew that and accepted it. It was one of their unspoken rules. When Beck said run – she'd run.

Rebekah dragged herself up off the floor awkwardly, stars appearing in her vision as she rocked unsteadily on her feet, her head light and completely disconnected, eyes roaming every inch of anything in a vain attempt to seek out the problem. Ghosts didn't haunt alleys – spirits were attached to places and objects, not roads. The only other thing-

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis im-"_

She was knocked cleanly off her feet, her path blocked by the metal wall of the nearest trashcan, the impact reverberating through her head, making her teeth chatter. She groaned openly, holding her head in her hands as the world once more attempted to right itself. It was typical – absolutely typical.

"Stop fuckin' throwin' me around you demonic prick," she grumbled as she heaved herself up for the second time, spitting blood into the nearest puddle, wiping the saliva away from her lips with the back of her stained hand.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

She pulled a pistol from the back of her jeans and aimed a shot in the direction of the voice, the bullet embedding itself into its shoulder. He seemed unsurprisingly indifferent, almost bored as he dug his fingers into the warm flesh of its vessel to dig out the small metal cap, flicking it the ground with a 'clink' at her feet as though nothing could have interested him more. His face was illuminated only by the green Exit sign that hung above the door of the apartment block to her right, his black eyes dead and unmerciful in the skull of what would have once been an innocent bystander, the poor bastard having his night made by a satanic soul and a semi-plastered, trigger happy moron who preferred to shoot first and ask questions later – as was the Aston way of doing things. Beck snarled at the demon as he squatted in front of her, easily slipping the pistol from her slick hands, giving her hair a quick ruffle as he did so as if to reinstate the fact that she was incredibly, almost ridiculously, out of her league.

"Ah – sorry. Did that hit a nerve?"

Her spitting at him gained her nothing more than a back-handed slap to her right cheek and a split lip, her tongue weighed down heavily by the own taste of her metallically sweet blood. It had picked an entirely unattractive vessel, an old greying thing with a belly to rival the Buddha's and a scent so foul it almost managed to turn her stomach, probably something it had picked up off the streets on its travels – almost like a souvenir. But it was strong, sturdy and had the ability to take a bullet as well as a wall could take a car crash, and in that respect the demon had chosen well. Because it knew she had the ability to batter it to within an inch of its existence, they all knew that, so why take a Ferrari to war when you could take a tank?

"I'm so sick of you bastards showin' up and ruinin' my nights," she sighed, almost laughing as she wiped yet more blood away from her mouth. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"We thought so too – but hey," it shrugged, tossing the pistol down the alley, "we like dropping by."

It even had the audacity to offer her a helping hand as she tried to stand, an offer she hesitantly took despite herself. Its hand was cold like ice, the skin calloused and hard beneath her own soft touch, fingernails blackened and cracked down the centre; but its grip was like iron and she could already feel the bones in her hand straining under the pressure it exerted against hers, her knuckles popping and cracking as she wriggled in its grasp.

"You see Beck – we don't learn. Neither do you. Every one of us you kill or send back-packing back to hell you get another ready and rearing to go. All your little exorcisms and petty little powers manage to do is piss off the boss – and when the boss gets pissed we get punished. So who benefits really?"

From somewhere not far enough away she heard a scream, a strange and inhuman sound that reached their ears horrendously and hideously mutated after having bounced from wall to wall, a noise that made the hairs on Beck's neck rise. She could see her own face reflected back at her in the blackened eyes of the demon that still held her close, a frightened little thing with wide blue eyes and a frantic expression that spoke of fear and of desperation, not the face of an expert hunter who still had a grip on things. The little girl's reflection shifted suddenly, startled as another shriek rang out across the empty street, a cry that rang with her own name though that too had been mutilated by the journey, the whole thing echoing eerily down the alley until it escaped down the other side.

"Don't you fuckin' touch her," she shrieked, pulling against him. "Mer – Mer! Meredith. Oh my God! Mer?"

Streetlights fluttered back into life sending floods of white light down the length of the alley, burning away the shadows to reveal the full extent of the carnage. Corpses of rough sleepers, apartment inhabitants and even the marred body of a police officer lay scattered, some with their eyes open, others looking as though they were sleeping if you were strong enough to ignore the organs that had been spilled haphazardly across the sidewalk. Rebekah heaved then, completely out of character, an alcohol-weakened stomach and nervous disposition mixing badly with the smell of rotting flesh and blood that hang stale on the air – the concoction fraternising even worse with the old worn leather of the demon's shoes. He threw her to the floor none too gently after that, letting her get it out of her system, allowing her the time she needed to get her breath back. She'd bumped into many a demon in her time, but this one had to be the most polite and most patient specimen she had ever encountered.

"Are you quite done?" He asked, flicking the worst of the vomit off his shoes with a folded roll of newspaper.

"You son - of a bitch," she gasped, feeling far fainter than she'd felt in a long time. She winced as another scream echoed down the alley, sending another convulsion through Rebekah's body despite her best efforts to hold it back. "I'll – I'll kill you," she muttered, dabbing at her lips with the material of her shirt, "just - give me a sec'."

"Lovely – really. I'm looking forward to it. Seriously I am."

Why did he have to be a sarcastic son of a bitch? Why did they all have to be sarcastic sons of bitches? Just for once she would have appreciated a straight talking, semi-serious demon but obviously that was far too farfetched!

She felt awful – seriously fucking awful. She'd been drunk before, so pissed she'd thought that up was down and right was up, believing that a walk home from the bar had been a walk home down the side of a building. But this was a different kind of awful, an unbearable weight in the stomach that couldn't be shifted no matter how many times you were sick. Her arms wobbled under her weight, her legs shaking like leaves beneath her body as she attempted to stand, her whole weight leaning against the cold metal that would remain indented by her body print for as long as the thing remained in use, a constant reminder to the people of the apartment buildings either side of her that someone had been stupid enough to stand against the thing that had massacred more people than a week had days.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"_

He Pulled her legs from beneath her, forcing her to fall to her knees, the impact jarring every bone in her body up to the nape of her neck. She hissed as she felt the blood begin to soak through her jeans, the grazed skin sticking to the inside of the denim, tearing further whenever she moved. She jumped at the sound of a gunshot, tears of a different kind of pain stinging her eyes. Mer didn't carry a gun, not on a night out. She looked up at him from beneath her hair as he placed a heavy finger beneath her chin, his rough hand caressing her blood-stained cheek once before his knuckles came into contact with the base of her jaw, jarring her head back and sending the air whooshing from her body, her mouth tainted crimson as she bit clumsily into her tongue, tears spilling down her cheeks as she gasped for air.

"You don't learn do you – you fucking inept waste?"

She'd killed every single one of them Satan had sent her way – casting them back to the pits of hell with whichever exorcism jumped to her tongue, but she was grossly outmatched in this instance, almost pathetically so. She was drunk, unable to See – no better than any girl her age walking the streets without protection, her brother's pistol lying in a puddle far too far away for her to Pull – not that she even had that in her. She was as good as dead.

"You're in luck," he sighed, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair, "we're not here to kill you – regardless of the boundless amounts of pleasure that would give me – we've got a message for you."

"From who," she spat.

"Samantha."

(*)

_Rock Port, Missouri. 12:08 a.m._

_Monday 22__nd__ September 2008. _

It had been a long day for both boys but an even longer night for Sam. Dean had scored at the bar leaving the youngest Winchester alone at The Bottle Neck in the company of the locals – not that he minded too much. The hunter bar had been warm and friendly despite the calibre of the company, the usual 'trucker types' lounging around in the bare chairs chucking beer down their throats as though their existence depended on it, but the owner and her kids had been nice enough and had even taken pity of the poor boy with the sour face, offering him a drink on the house and a bowl of peanuts to keep him company in his brother's absence. But Dean had returned for him as he always did, and at midnight the boys had decided that they'd had enough and were in the process of making their rather wobbly way back to the motel – a place that hadn't seemed as far away as it did now.

Sammy liked hunter bars for more reasons than one. They were comforting, familiar and welcoming to the lost souls that walked through their doors to seek solace at the bottom of a glass, but apart from that they were living libraries of information. If Bobby didn't know – pop into a hunter bar and ask a local. Google not giving you what you need? Can't find the burial place of this or that person? Go ask a local at the nearest hunter bar. But there'd been an unusual topic of conversation that night, old mouths buzzing with fresh news and information, of stories far more farfetched than those that usually passed from between their lips. There were talks of demons and of crop failures, of the usual things such as ghosts and gas prices, but in between the traditional hunter chatter came whispers of a man back from the dead, rumours of a man who'd escaped hell and was walking amongst the living. Even the landlord and her kids had gathered around to listen to the stories, most unbelieving, though others swore by their sources. The conversation was fleeting – the older veterans becoming entranced by a little pixie-like creature who, after much coercing, shared with them tales of things even Sam Winchester himself did not believe in. He'd turned his back on the group after that, returning to his own upside down world of Dean and demons, his phone lying blank and unresponsive despite his texting as he'd waited on his brother's return.

"_Something's wrong, shut the light  
Heavy thoughts tonight  
And they aren't of snow white  
Dreams of war  
Dreams of lies  
Dreams of dragons fire  
And of things that will bite, yeah."_

Dean Winchester, however, was in incredibly high spirits. He was partially pissed and almost completely unaware of just about everything save his brother's more sober presence at his side, his face still wearing the smile it had worn for most of the night, especially after he'd scored with the waitress after she'd got off work. The chill in the air couldn't remove the blush from his cheeks nor dampen his mood, and his singing stood a jubilant tribute to the quality of the night he'd had. This was the best he'd felt since getting back from hell, and that was a very good thing indeed.

"Smile Sam – come on, it won't kill ya'."

His brother rolled his eyes at him as they rounded the corner, his arm shooting out the grab his brother's as Dean took one step too far, his foot slipping down the curb, concrete slick with rain.

"When we set off – I'm driving."

Dean batted at his brother's hand and shrugged his skewwhiff jacket back onto his shoulders, his hands awkwardly patting his ass to check for his pistol as Sam regarded him with a somewhat disgruntled expression.

"Dean you need to-"

The boys dived into the nearest shadow as the first scream of the night echoed out across the barren waste of Rock Port's outskirts, instinct tugging their bodies even closer to the walls of the old apartment building at their backs. Dean's gun was already in his hand, loaded and aimed, Sam's fingertips slightly less responsive, hovering hesitantly over the cold metal grip of the pistol that still sat holstered in the back of his jeans. Both boys winced as another shriek emanated from the unknown source, this time laden with a name though that in itself was inaudible. The hunters exchanged nervous glances, Dean's lips set into one long, thin, straight line as he took a step forwards, Sam's hand grasping his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" The youngest Winchester hissed.

"What does it look like I'm doing Sam – really?"

"Dean – I know we can't just stand here but you have _no _idea what's going on round there and-"

"Then let's find out genius," Dean muttered, signalling for Sam to follow him.

They'd seen some shit in their time, but more often than not by the time they got to the scene the victim was already dead. But this one – well she was very much alive. She was quick too, probably the fastest thing on two feet the boys had ever seen, but the men that had swarmed her were faster and far more persistent, and when it came to big versus small big often won. Sam was forced to turn his head as she was thrown to the floor, probably for the umpteenth time, her limbs cracking against the pavement, the skin grazed clean from her bare arms and knees as she shivered in a damp pile on the floor, her clothes torn, feet bare and bleeding. But instead of attacking again they waited for her to get to her feet, her blackened knees quaking, her own arms crossed over her chest in a vain attempt to hold what was left of her together. Even Dean was surprised when she didn't run, despite the fact that her attackers had parted to allow her room to escape – not that they'd actually let her go.

Sam turned his brother's attentions to the streetlight above their heads, his finger following a row of blackened bulbs that led to the alley that ran down the other side of the apartment building. The usual silent conversation was quickly followed by their usual silent argument, flying arms, hand gestures and facial expression all facing off against one another until, finally, it came down to the usual game of rock, paper, scissors. Sam could have sworn Dean didn't even try.

"Dean – try not to kill anybody. They're just guys," Sam muttered as he checked his bag for holy water. "No police."

"Scumbags Sam – they're just scumbags."

"Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself okay?"

"And you just try not to get yourself killed – no freaky exorcising shit Sam. Do it the old fashioned way."

With a nod, Sam took off down the alley the way they had come, turning back only to see Dean safely round the corner, another scream making his ears ring, a gunshot quickly following. They were just guys – just human guys. Dean would be safe and sound and definitely in his comfort zone beating the shit out of scumbags, especially beating the shit out of sick bastards who thought they had the right to attack a lone woman in the middle of the night. He'd hear about it later sure – how sick humans were and how you could trust a demon to be bad exedra, but he decided to cross that repetitive bridge when he came to it.

He hesitated at the crossroads, his breath frosting in front of his face in white plumes as he, unlike Dean, attempted to sort through a battle plan. The inner workings of Sam Winchester's mind were a logical state of affairs, nine times out of ten. Panic rarely set in unless someone he knew was involved, and whenever that occurred educated guesses and instinctive reactions usually got the job done as well (if not a little messier). Demons were demons, they all had the same weaknesses and they could all be sent packing back to hell with the same Latin exorcisms and harmed with the same holy water, iron or salt. Demons were demons. Demons were always demons. Sam Winchester therefore, in his mind, knew exactly what to expect.

No he did not.

"You don't learn do you – you fucking inept waste?"

Sam took a deep breath, gun at his chest, head rocking on the corner of the building as he psyched himself up to dive in, the dregs of the demon blood in his system reacting to the situation, sizzling and popping inside his veins. He could hear his heart in his ears, something he never, ever told Dean, something he always kept to himself. It wasn't fear, just natural reaction – something he couldn't control.

"You're in luck," it sighed, "We're not here to kill you – regardless of the boundless amounts of pleasure that would give me – we've got a message for you."

"From who," someone spat at it.

"Samantha."

He bit his lip and rounded the corner, keeping close to the wall, shielding his eyes from the startlingly white light that flooded the alley, bulbs of the streetlights straining against the power of the electromagnetic force the demon's presence was giving off. And there it was, a great hulk of a thing, its greasy grey hair slick against its balding head, clothes hanging like grimy rags from its body. It had its back to him as it bent down, Sam wrinkling his nose at the filthy ass crack that greeted him, knowing he would have much preferred to look at its face instead of the place where the sun never shone. It shifted to the side as it straightened itself up, black eyes narrowing as it scanned the alleyway, Sam ducking into the nearest patch of shadow cast by an incredibly bloody and dented dumpster.

"It seems your luck is limitless," he sighed, running a hand through its hair. "Sam, Sam, Sam. Come out, come out wherever you are."

_Fuck. _Sam squeezed his eyes shut and swore under his breath, smacking his head against the metal of the dumpster as he cursed his own pathetic attempts at being covert over and over again. He was seriously out of practice, so used to having Ruby do the dirty work and him clearing up afterwards he had no idea how _not _to charge in anymore. He could already hear John's voice incessantly buzzing at the back of his mind, pointing out all his mistakes, what he should have done differently, everything Sam knew Dean would have done first time round.

"Oh Sammy boy!"

_Sarcastic son of a bitch. _

"Alright – alright!" Sam muttered, rolling out of his hiding place onto his feet, his pistol aimed at the very centre of the demon's chest, though his bullet wouldn't be the first to penetrate the creature's flesh.

She was knelt in a way that made it seem as though she was praying, something that threw Sam off entirely at first. But then he noticed the blood that stained her jeans at her knees, the blood that seeped through the cloth of her shirt or that that matted her hair and that that had painted her lips. Her eyes were dead and drowning, scarlet tinted tears running down her cheeks wherever water came into contact with an open cut or graze, her skin deathly pale in contrast to the crimson liquid that continued to drip from her parted lips, face blank, emotionless, switched off. He'd expected demons alright, just not that.

But, beneath all the grime and the matted blood, he recognised her face. He'd clocked her at the bar, the girl accompanying the little pixie creature – the one that talked about faerie and other such ridiculous things whilst she'd sat in the corner and smiled, swigging a beer, carving things into what must have been her family table. She was a hunter, a hunter that was obviously completely out of her league, more used to hunting ghosts and werewolves – not the demons that now seemed to plague the darkest corners of every single town they came across. She was a hunter – she definitely looked like one. Killing her would be a tally point on the chart of the demons, but tormenting and killing the other girl hardly seemed fair – more like collateral damage than anything else. He felt ill.

"You know what I can do-"

The demon raised an eyebrow, "I do. But you're running low on gas Sammy-boy. I've wanted to meet you ever since Lilith put a price on your head."

"Well," Sam sighed, spreading out his arms, "here I am. Come get me."

"Do you think I'm that stupid you moron? What – do you expect me to come running into your arms?"

"That would be nice."

Sam eyes flicked from the demon's to hers, her eyes still running red with tears despite her efforts to wipe them away with the mucky sleeve of her shirt. She was local; he could tell by the accent in her voice that she had not travelled far, probably a girl just passing through to her next job – unless this was it. He hadn't missed the corpses that lay strewn at the other end of the alleyway, but none had moved and where therefore unworthy of his help for the time being. Maybe that was her job – disappearances, murders, more collateral damage, those were definitely the sorts of things that would have pulled them off a case if they'd been passing through.

"He recognises you – you can't know him surely?"

"From the bar," she mumbled into her sleeve, wiping away more of the blood that still dripped from her mouth. "We're yet to be acquainted though."

Sam was at a loss. They spoke as he would speak to Bobby, so casually it was almost implausible. A demon and a hunter – he'd never had an actual _conversation _type conversation with a demon before, especially when said demon had battered him into a bloody pulp to within an inch of his life. But the girl had a look on her face – the look of a person who seemed to know exactly what she was doing despite her grave, near hopeless, situation. And, as if to reinstate that fact, she winked at him, her fingers dabbing gently at the blood that pooled in a little scarlet puddle at her collarbone.

_Keep it busy._

He let off a crack shot, hitting the demon in the shoulder, the bullet hole symmetrical to the one that had punctured the other side. And, from the sheath at his belt, he pulled Ruby's knife. Immediately the look on the demon's face fell from an expression of cocky assuredness to a haunted glare, its black eyes roaming the length of the blade in his hand, the thing rocking backwards and forwards on its feet as it tried to decide whether or not to run or charge. But either decision would have been irrelevant, because her gory task was done, a complete devil's trap drawn in blood onto the flat metal wall of the dumpster at her back, holding the demon that stood before her in place like a rabbit in a snare.

She heaved herself to her feet, Sam sprinting forwards to offer her a hand which she thankfully took, though her face remained entirely grave despite her apparent appreciation. She sobbed once as a breath choked her throat, Sam passing his arm behind her back as she wobbled slightly on the cracked heels of her boots, another gunshot making her shiver inside her skin.

"Thank you," she managed to mutter, tucking a strand of blood-matted hair behind her ear. "I owe you one – Sam?"

"Sam yeah."

"Oh this is lovely – really."

Both hunter and huntress returned their attentions to the demon that was busy pacing its trap, the invisible walls that surrounded the creature corralling it into a steadily tightening circle.

"Can you just send me back to hell – please? I've done my job. I'm not going to kill anyone… else. She knows that," he sighed irritably, gesturing towards her with an open hand.

"Is that true?"

She shrugged.

"Oh come on!"

"Does that knife k-"

"Kill it? Yeah."

Sam looked down at her, only managing to catch a glimpse of half her face through her wild hair. Her attentions were on nothing but the knife that he held in his hand, need and want blatant in her blue, glassy eyes, her lips set in a line though, as seconds passed, even she managed to force a smile, a haunting look that didn't reach her eyes making her look – well – almost demented. He allowed her to run her fingertips across the blade, bloody fingerprints remaining on the clean, polished silver of the knife-edge, an awe-filled sigh escaping her as she dropped her hand heavily to her side.

"Then do it," she whispered, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Pleasure."

(*)

She wouldn't stop fucking bleeding – like everywhere.

He hadn't had a choice. When push eventually came to shove, Dean shoved and he shoved hard. He'd shot two of them, taken a stab wound off the one before slitting a throat and the fourth one – well he was an accident and wouldn't be brought up in conversation. If asked, he'd deny it. He'd simply added the bodies to the pile in the ally, all weapons dumped in the nearest dumpster. When (not if) anyone came upon the scene, it'd look like a crazed gang had lost their shit and taken out a load of innocents before ganking themselves, one getting 'unfortunately' caught up and crushed in the madness – again – an accident.

He'd found her motel keys in her purse and rushed her back as fast as he could, the little creature barely weighing a thing – he'd carried heavier bags of sand. She'd passed out from shock a while back, but that hadn't stopped the bleeding. Dean perched himself at the foot of her bed, head in his hands, feet tapping against the lino tiles of the motel floor as he contemplated his next plan of action. He'd cleaned and bandaged her feet, removing all the shards of glass and stones with a pair of tweezers he'd found in her bathroom, disinfected her cuts and grazes with some antiseptic wipes (also discovered in the bathroom) whilst treating himself, using the real thing making him feel somewhat pampered, knowing full well that a bottle of hard alcohol and a towel between his teeth would have been his answer to such a predicament if he'd been in his room – though Sam had the keys. He hadn't undressed her – that seemed so wrong in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. Even for medical reasons he couldn't bring himself to even take off her cardigan, though that itself lay ripped and useless around her shoulders and would have been more use off than on.

The oldest Winchester took to pacing the room, the only sounds being his feet slapping against the tiles and her even breaths. She was a pretty little thing, he had to admit. Under all the cuts and bruises and grazes she would have caught his eye if she'd walked down the street, though he'd have had to have looked down to get a good look at her face. But he couldn't see the real girl lying on the bed, the girl he would of hit on hard if she'd been at a bar and he hadn't got a pistol shoved down the backs of his jeans; all he could see was the fragile little bird lying motionless and dirty against the cheap pink sheets, baby blue nail varnish chipped and dirty where blood and dirt had forced its way underneath, lips still somewhat glossy despite the night she'd had.

Slowly and carefully Dean bent down and applied a damp flannel to her brow, dabbing away at some of the dirt and grime before leaving her to rest, content to comb the room through, looking for anything else he could use as a bandage (the supply in the bathroom dangerously low). Her room was exactly like his accept hers had been decorated with a more – feminine clientele in mind. There was a vase of fake flowers on the bedside table, alongside which stood a small cask of salt and a book titled '_Rituale Romanum',_ a battered old leather bookmark splitting the book in half, red ribbon fraying at the edges from use. The hunter frowned as he inspected the contents of the table, eyes flicking to the other side of the double bed where an identical vase of flowers, salt cask and book lay – though this book was untitled, front, back and spine all made of the same worn brown leather hide that his own father's journal was made of, strings of ribbon, bits of paper and strips of leather sticking out from the pages in various different places, marking key areas of reading for future use – just like theirs.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered as he pulled back one of the pillows, a pistol and anti-possession amulet lying beneath like chocolates in a hotel.

That explained – fantastically little. He threw the pillows back in place and took another look at the young woman lying in the bed, more colour flushing her once white cheeks, a good sign that all was well. She definitely did not look the type – seriously did not look the type. She was far too small and – well dainty. Like a doily… or a sparrow. He couldn't imagine her taking on a werewolf or wendigo with a shotgun in her hands – that was just ludicrous. What the fuck was going on?

Dean jumped slightly as the door burst open, his brother slipping through the crack he'd created with yet another girl in his arms, his entrance marked by a chorus of barking dogs. Sam was sweating as though he'd run a marathon and, after slipping the second girl gently into Dean's waiting arms, turned around and kicked the door shut just before a dog the size of a wolf barrelled into it, claws scraping down the painted wood on the other side. Its yapping face appeared between the blinds of the window, then again at the other window, Sam irritably shutting the curtains on the thing.

"Is that-"

"Hers? Probably."

"So-"

"I'm not gonna' let it in Dean! It'll kill us."

"Right."

This one was heavier than the last and far, far longer. She was all arms and legs – and hair, though the vast majority of it was matted to her head with blood, grit and puddle water making it incredibly difficult for the eldest Winchester to untangle himself from the lot of it as he attempted to lay her down on the bed next to her friend.

"Dude," Dean sighed, stretching his arms out above his head, joints popping in his shoulders, "what the hell happened?"

"Demon," Sam muttered, disappearing into the girl's bathroom, tap hissing into life. "Got rid of it though so we're all good." The young hunter popped his head around the door, Ruby's knife in one hand and a tainted towel in the other, the type of thing they'd have to take with them and dump somewhere so that no questions were asked (just like the bed sheets and the vast majority of other towels, flannels and material based objects they'd furnished the room with). "How did it-"

"Go? Well. Problem solved."

"Without killing-"

Dean shot his brother a look.

"Right."

"Did you know they were hunters?" Dean muttered, pulling the pistol from beneath the pillow, turning it over in his hands to examine it.

"Her – yeah? The little one – not a chance in hell."

"I dunno' Sammy – maybe it's getting popular – like a new breed of hunters, all small and dainty and – breakable."

"Sounds great," Sam sighed, a clean damp towel in his hands. "Though I seriously doubt that Dean."

Dean observed as his brother set to work on the other girl, his large hands remarkably gentle when it came to dealing with her various injuries, most of which were bleeding profusely or were clotted with all sorts of added extras that you did not want healing into your skin. Sam (unlike Dean) seemed to have no qualms about undressing the patient to get to the problem and Dean, being the gentleman he was, politely averted his eyes as his brother set to work sponging the worst of the blood off her back, taking a quick peek to marvel at the diamond shaped bruises that were beginning to appear against her skin from where she'd obviously been thrown hard into a fence, his keen eye noting the anti-possession tattoo she wore on her lower left hip as his brother rolled her gently back over.

"How long has yours been out?"

"Passed out after I shot the second guy – I think she just sort of malfunctioned – like an overload or somethin'."

"Ah."

"Yours?"

"Boy do we need names for these two," Sam sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "Erm – she went on the way back - I only had to carry her a few blocks, but I had to grab her gun first," he muttered, flinging the pistol onto the nightstand.

Dean snorted, "You look like you've carried her more than a few blocks Sammy."

"The dog chased me for a few of them."

(*)

Sam lay stretched out against the sofa as best as he could have managed, his legs bent at the knee over the arm, the tips of his boots just about brushing the tiles as he shifted in his sleep, mouth clamped shut, hands clasped on his stomach as he settled into the cushions. Dean took a swig from his beer and kicked back on the legs of the chair, stifling a yawn as he flicked through his dad's journal, all the pages memorised, his own mucky fingerprints marking almost every page from where past-selves had spent their night's doing the same thing, mindlessly reading text and written scrawl they'd already read a million times over in an attempt to pass time and stop themselves from thinking. But he couldn't stop himself, and as his mind wandered he found himself thinking about what Sammy had been up to in that alley by himself, knowing full well he could have turned dark-side again for a moment without his brother at his side, knowing that demon could have had its bags packed for hell by Sam's freakin' demonic sixth sense shit he had going on. And that, more than those scum beating the shit out of the girl with the blue nails or the demon tormenting the lanky chick, made him feel sick to his stomach.

Dean took another gulp of beer and settled the bottle back on the table, his fingers mindlessly picking at the label. He still looked like his little brother, his floppy hair covering his eyes, his foot twitching slightly as he dreamt about something Dean could only speculate about. But he'd seen him with his own eyes – seen what he could do. Bobby always said family didn't end with blood, that was like his freakin' mantra. But when it came to Sammy he just had no idea anymore. He looked like a little angel, just a drawn out version of the kid he'd used to tuck up in bed at night whilst dad was away, the kid he'd taught to shoot straight and tie his shoelaces, both the former and the latter being at about age twelve. Dean emptied the bottle and pushed it across the table, leaning back on his chair and reaching for another from the fridge. But at some point Sam had grown out of him, grown above him, and when he'd left that had fucking stung more than anything. But this – Dean would take Stanford over this.

The older hunter rolled out of his chair and crept steadily to the sink, carefully filling a bowl with water and another with the leftovers from their takeaway chicken, placing his bottle soundlessly into the trash. The gust of wind that washed over his half naked body took his breath away, a cold winter night blowing away as many cobwebs as it could before he shut the door behind him, his body reacting to the chill of the night violently as he dithered and danced on the spot, hairs on his arms erect as gooseflesh spread across his exposed skin. And there it was, lying alone and alert on the deck above the steps, the thing that had chased his brother lord-knew how many blocks to the front door and scared the living shit out of him in the process. It raised its head warily as he took a step towards it, placing both bowls down in a blatant show of what Dean saw as solidarity, hesitant as he made to approach the animal, hand outstretched and shaking. It took his affection with an almost indifferent expression, its nose hovering over the bowl of chicken scraps and bones as Dean bent down at its side, his numbing fingers fumbling with the animal's collar.

"Alistair eh-" he muttered, giving the great thing a ruffle between the ears. "Don't you worry. We're taking good care of them. Don't worry. There's a good boy."

Dean spent the night outside, jacket shrugged over his shoulders, Alistair lying long and warm at his side. He preferred his own company that night, feeling trapped and bored inside, his mind constantly switching from the condition of the two strangers they'd saved from death to the boy that had done it. Dogs were simple and honest – as was the night. There was nothing complicated about feeling cold, nothing mysterious about an animal's loyalty and warmth. The massive creature had accepted his presence and his offering within minutes, and as Dean continued to talk to it Alistair seemed to placate further, even allowing the oldest Winchester to rub the warm fur of his belly, something (unbeknownst to Dean) the dog had never let anyone outside the Aston bloodline do. It made Dean happy, made him feel more peace than he'd felt in a long time. Neither man nor dog slept, and as the light of morning washed over their chilled bodies and banished away the warming haze of the green neon, one after another the two boys closed their eyes against the glare of dawn, embraced by a light and incredibly comforting sleep, another thing neither Alistair nor Dean had experienced in a long, long time.


	5. Chapter Four: The Pissed Off Prince

**Author's Note:**

**Anna**

_Recommended Playlist:_

_Flyleaf – So Sick_

_HIM – Wings of a Butterfly_

_Beatles - Blackbird_

* * *

**Chapter Four:**

_Rapid City, South Dakota 1:02 a.m._

_Monday 22__nd__ September 2008. _

She could feel the music thrumming in the hollowness of her chest, the bass dropping as the lights went out for the umpteenth time that night. Girls writhed against each other on stage, skin touching skin, lace against lace, bills ranging from the petty to the pricey adorning the fabrics of their underwear as they pandered to the whims of the their nightly 'clients'. They crowded round like the horny little insects they were, grown men, married men, working men – all with their eyes on the 'evening special', the club's brightest stars displaying what could only be referred to as their 'God-given assets', though it had to be said that three out of four of the creatures on centre-stage had most certainly modified what God had granted a long time ago.

She knew each one by name now, knew their dreams and ambitions, their fears – their futures, the bleakness of which made her stomach turn. They were nothing more than little, silly girls, some saving up for college, others rebelling from beneath overbearing parents and others simply doing what they did for the thrill and the attention. And knowing what she knew she couldn't bear to see them touched by the heavy hands of the clubs regular clientele. Some were rough and marked their skin, others were sickeningly sweet and disgustingly turned on by what the girls had to offer. And – as a new addition to the WhiteChapel family, Anna had had to watch and 'learn' despite her rather extensive knowledge in the field, earning trust, allowing herself free reign over the club floor for her first night 'on show'. And that was what she needed. Neon lights pulsed in geometric patterns across walls and floors, bathing her half-naked body in blue and in pink, her eyes taking on the tone of every colour her irises came into contact with. She didn't care much for the club's dress policy – but Victoria's Secret had been a fascinating learning curve and one that she would happily repeat in the future. It appeared some trends never faded, and a fetish for lace seemed to have transcended the change of time, though the Tudor's had had a far more 'decent' approach in terms of female underwear.

She tipped her shot back and slid the glass across the bar, the girl working it that particular night offering her a quick half-hearted smile before refilling it and sending it straight back. She didn't have anywhere near enough alcohol in her system, nowhere near enough. The thought of her vessel touching him – the thought of him touching _her. _It turned her stomach. Made her feel sick. She swallowed the translucent liquid in one mouthful, the small glass coming away from her mouth in fragments, shards she soon crushed into dust in the palm of her hand. She had an immense and unwavering respect for the woman she inhabited, an admiration that had just about managed to withstand the corrosive effects of time. But she had a job to do – no amount of undying reverence would change that. Her body may have been her temple – but it was a tool too.

She turned to catch the bartender's eye, motioning for another two shots. She'd been drinking non-stop since the previous day, starting bright and early at six in the morning, emptying the nearest store of its liquor. But it hadn't been enough – it was never enough. And so, a little past sober, she collected her tools and weaved her way through the crowd as best she could in the ridiculous heels the club provided, toes crushed under her heels as a stray hand touched her bare ass. She bit her lip and progressed, battering down her growing irritation. If she had her way she would have decimated the entire population of the fowl little pests a long time ago, last week if she hadn't had a job to do. She'd come up against her fair share of males in the past however many hundred years of her existence in her vessel, though in the good old days men were rather 'under the table' about their desires, never daring to be blatant. But the twenty-first century creatures – they were another breed or race all together. They touched you, groped at you, made remarks that would have made Victorian women faint or a Lord feel almost embarrassed to share the same genitalia as the baboon that would have uttered such a comment. No, the era of the year 2000 was definitely not to her taste.

She could smell them before she could see them, a heady mixture of hard alcohol, unwashed bodies and earth, the scent of pine still clinging to the fibres of their work clothes. The smell pissed her off more than anything. It wasn't that they couldn't wash it was that they fucking chose not to – as though the strippers and the hookers that worked the bar and the stage for the blood-money that lined their pockets would get off on the stale sweat that sat festering beneath their rolls of fat, turning white t-shirts yellow. When she rounded the corner she was greeted with an entirely too familiar scene, one she'd have to wipe from her memory after the job was complete with a few booze stores worth of drink and an extended vacation to somewhere entirely bleak – somewhere like Siberia, where the likelihood of bumping into another damned human being was less probable than being mauled to death by a bear.

Being gored by a bear – she would have found that far more preferable, though if the night carried on as she'd unfortunately envisioned there wouldn't be much difference between the two outcomes. She knew each one of their faces, knew their families and their jobs – even what filling they preferred on their fucking sandwiches. Barry worked the crane, had a wife and two kids who welcomed him home with open arms every day after work despite the fact he'd been out for an hour previous snorting cocaine off the tits of a prostitute he picked up every Wednesday evening. Mitch was happily married and expecting a third child, had jam and cheese sandwiches at one o'clock sharp every weekday and had a lucky hard-hat that he never left the house without. Unbeknownst to his family he had a gambling habit and had lost the family car in a dodgy game of poker and was currently working to get it back. And Richie – well he was engaged to his fiancé and actually wasn't a bad guy. But despite all of this, _they _weren't actually her problem.

"Special delivery for a Mr Saxx."

The name tasted bitter on her tongue. Mr Saxx – Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx. What a prick, what an absolute tool. If you looked up 'dickhead' in the dictionary you'd get an image of Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx. What a fucking pretentious name. She'd done a lot of jobs in the past, killed a lot of people for far less than he'd gotten away with. Barry was bad – she had to admit Barry was a fuck-up with a record to rival the likes of Tiger Woods but this man – this 'creature' was something else. Monty Saxx was in another league to the bigoted bastards and sad sons of bitches she'd 'laid to rest' in her time, having swindled a local wood company out of thousands for his own personal profit, ignoring hundreds of planning regulations and health and safety laws that made you wonder how lucky Mitch's freaking hard-hat actually was, fat cat of probably one of the biggest building firms in Dakota with more money under his belt and muffin-top than the combined life's wages of all the men that surrounded him. But she could have ignored that – she could have let the money laundering and the blatant disregard of the well-being of his men slide (at least for a little while)- if he hadn't bought out and cleared nearly a hundred acres of green-belt land for his most recent developments. Now that – that would not slide.

His suit couldn't seem to encompass his entire girth, Anna finding herself pitying the poor buttons whose job it was to strain against the tidal bulge of his stomach. She could smell cigar smoke and whiskey even from where she stood, the stale odour of the men around him not even able to penetrate the wall of wealth that he'd encompassed himself with, the half smoked cigar that sat idly between his chubby fingers probably costing more than what one of the girl's would earn in a day doing what they did (a job which tipped unsurprisingly well). He had a hundred dollar bill lazily lounging in his top right blazer pocket and, from the look on his face and the way he settled himself in his chair, it looked as though he expected her to remove it.

"Help yourself sweetheart," he sneered, podgy hands beckoning her in.

_Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx._

She inhaled deeply and held the breath, savouring the taste. Her face was borderline indifferent as she lowered herself into his waiting lap, her body seeming ridiculously and almost comically small compared to his massive size. Around them his men seemed to scatter, melting into the background of pulsing lights and swarming bodies, a far too practiced dismissal for her liking, though she was well aware of how regularly Mr Saxx 'aquainted' himself with the staff of the WhiteChapel. He, like all other men, had a preference – had favourites. Money-bags Saxx liked the red-headed girls, the one's he associated with a fiery disposition and an _obvious_ genetic preference towards aggressive lovers. She'd seen him at other bars, plucking at soft little ginger haired girls with freckles, his fat hands in their hair, his arms encircling their tiny frames like shackles. Their particular red-head knew to keep her distance, a little quiet thing by the name of Ella whose only reason for working at such a seedy place was to make her way through med-school. But a black-haired, blue eyed little bird - that was definitely not his 'type'. He loved feminine little girls with big eyes, big breasts and bad mouths, not a pissed off Principality with a pixie-cut and a pistol.

She emptied the shot into his cavernous mouth, taking her own down in one, flicking her glass on the nearest table. His hands were already on her thighs, her cold skin reacting violently to the clammy feel of his skin against hers, forcing her to shiver. She covered up her revulsion by leaning in, trying her hardest not to breathe in the smoke that still sat around his head like a black cloud. She plucked the bill from his pocket with her teeth, making him smile almost endearingly as she rolled it up with her tongue, dropping the (slightly damp) scroll of money into her bra. He seemed impressed and that was good, and somewhere way deep down and despite herself she was proud that a trick she'd picked up in Amsterdam had actually worked for her for once. Every cloud had a silver lining, and despite having to fuck the very dregs of society on the odd occasion or fill her body with suspicious substances in order to bridge the gap between her and a certain 'underground' sect of people she got to travel, taste different foods and learn a few skills that'd made her life easier and far more interesting – obvious job perks. But this – she didn't see this situation having any lining at all, let alone a fucking silver one.

"Can I interest you in a er – _private _showing Mr Saxx?"

_Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx._

He was interested all right – she could feel him getting 'interested' beneath her. Did that make her feel like vomiting all over his plush (two sizes too small) Prada suit – why yes it did! But, silver-lining wise, it meant that she was in fact doing her job right. She gave as good as she got, running her hands down his chest to his belt, offering a little tug of encouragement as she slid from his lap, one hand still trapped within his as she led him away through the thick of the throng, the roll of money in her bra incredibly uncomfortable having unravelled and stuck to the side of her breast. If her Brothers and Sisters could have seen her now – if her Father could have…

Unbeknownst to Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx there were actually no private rooms for employees to go and ravish their paying clients. Yeah they had girls making-out on stage and strippers entertaining crowds of males in dark corners but WhiteChapel found itself above private clientele rooms. Unbeknownst to Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx Anna Elizabeth Partridge did not have any immediate plans to offer him a private showing. Instead, she'd decided a long, long time ago to rip his lungs from his body having previously shredded them against his rib cage. So, in a way, Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx was going to receive a private showing, he just hadn't been told what of yet. And this was how her nights so often ended, hand in hand with the object of her most intense hatred, a desire to destroy and exact her Father's divine retribution burning in the very pits of her Grace. Every fibre of her being had been sewn to become the perfect malevolent machine, and she had killed and killed again in the name of her Father, in the name of her Brothers and Sisters and even in her own name. She had more blood in her ledger than a lot of the men she wiped off the face of the earth for crimes against her Father's creation, but she still managed to sleep at night despite not needing to. And, wherever He was and whatever He was doing, she still hoped that despite all she'd done he was proud of her.

It had been a long few months for her – far too long. She let out a breath she'd been keeping since July as soon as she laid her eyes on the beauty that just had to be the male toilet door, faded wood and graffiti-covered sign painted in Mr Saxx's eyes as the entrance to his night's love nest, the place where she'd _obviously_ suck him off for another hundred dollar bill because that was _obviously _her primary intention. Her final thoughts as she pushed him through the door were of his children at home with their mother, a girl far too young and innocent to be with such a cad of a man though it seemed that being knocked up didn't go down too well with publicist or press. And, in her rational way of thinking, she was doing her and the world a massive favour. And so all rational and empathetic thought sat dismissed on the faded 'Welcome' matt outside the male restroom, something she'd perhaps return to pick up afterwards if the mood took her, if she felt like wallowing in hindsight or in pity for the creature she was about to skin like a pig.

She couldn't help smile as he stumbled around the room, the click of a lock behind her seeming to echo on a lot longer than it should have. It was quite sweet how quickly the looks of expectancy had faded from his face, how surprisingly fast his overwhelming feelings of longing and lust were replaced by the unmistakable stench of chaos and confusion, two things that actually somehow managed to overpower the scent of B.O that still clung to his skin like a parasite. And all the bodyguards that money could buy, all the armoured cars and the AK-47's in the world could not hold up against God's Divine Retribution in human form.

.:(*):.

He lay hunched in a corner, cowering like a dog, like the family of foxes he'd had gassed and shot in August to make room for a family sized pool. She'd taken that all too personally and had made sure the earth beneath said pool had sunk a good few feet, sending it, the garden and half the house into a sinkhole the size of a small supermarket.

She didn't torture or torment for fun. She gained no joy from it. On her lips were her Father's words as she flayed him alive, Heaven's blessing at her fingertips as she broke every one of his fingers one by one before his eyes, allowing him to bask in the glory of his white bones protruding from his pallid skin, all colour drained from his face as he bled out onto the off-white tiles of the restroom floor. This was her purpose, to punish when God could not, to protect what God could not personally protect. Because the fox, his vixen and his three kits could not protect themselves from the bullets that had embedded themselves in their skulls, nor could the Fae-creatures defend themselves against the wheels of the bulldozers as they found their brittle bones ground into the earth as their Nest was demolished into absolute oblivion. The blood that marred her hands was worth it, and the way she viewed her job helped her move onto the next. His existence was meaningless, as pointless and as expendable as the next son of a bitch on her agenda and the sorry asshole she'd torn to shreds before him. There'd always be another one of him, meaning there'd always be a job for her.

She dragged his sorry state off the floor and up the wall with a quick flick of her wrist, a long red smear plotting his course across the off-white tiles as he rose like a broken doll, hanging in the air like a puppet with its stings cut. He muttered something inaudible, a long stream of crimson tinted spittle roping its way from his lips to land in a puddle on the floor near his feet. The lights above their heads flickered erratically, the water that spilled from broken sinks and urinals flooding the floor around her heels, her toes shrinking back from the oncoming tide. That was another thing that puzzled her about her Father's creations – they never died cleanly. Animals didn't make a mess upon death; they didn't bleed everywhere as they didn't ever seem to have the capacity within themselves to do so. Human beings however liked to make a big 'song and dance' about the whole damned thing, spilling their guts, coughing up their insides – generally bleeding all over the fucking place just so you knew they were dying. And animals were quiet about it too – usually just lay there and took the shit that was coming to them instead of rolling all over the place screaming and crying and begging for it to stop.

And that had been his way, a coward's death. She had been by the book and entirely fair, read him his rights and his charges, said unto him that he would be judged upon his arrival at Heaven's Great Gates and so on and so forth. Revealing herself as one of God's Seven Regents was always a fun one, and like all the others he'd called her a crazy bitch and threatened to phone the police, even managed to pluck up enough courage to pull a gun on her and shoot her twice, once in the shoulder, a second just to the left of her vessel's heart. That hadn't gone down well of course, and when her wings had unfurled in her anger and cast the room in a blackened shadow the colour had drained from him – the son of a bitch even having the audacity to pray for forgiveness as though that would save his sorry ass from perdition.

Anna shook her wings out, flicking the blood and water from the tips of her feathers as they soaked themselves in the growing pool around her feet. She was immensely glad that her wings were not as white as her Sister's, her blackened feathers allowing for stains to go unnoticed for far longer. The immense amount of upkeep fairer Angels had to suffer with was almost inconceivable for her, and although she often enjoyed nothing more than a good preening every now and again to do it daily was a just a fucking hassle. In her line of work, it was dark feathers or nothing, an Angel of her occupation being far too busy to spend her entire freaking day washing the dirt and bloodstains of a day's tribulations from her wings in order to look presentable, that was just ludicrous. The thought of inhabiting any vessel other than a dark haired one was farfetched – and the saying 'once you go black you never go back' often sprang to mind in a situation such as this (a phrase the little Principality had picked up along the way but had yet to comprehend the 'correct' meaning and/or usage).

She sighed and ran a hand through her short hair, swirling her toes in the growing waters. She knew she didn't have long as the water would soon be leaking out onto the main floor, probably causing some arsehole to slip over and give away her position and the problem at hand. She had about five minutes, enough to put an end to the current situation, leave her calling card and make an exit before anyone was any the wiser to what was actually going on.

"You were birthed by God to live by Him and you have failed to do so – Ergo have been selected to die by His Hand. It is regrettable, but it must be done."

She had said those words nearly as many years as she had lived within her vessel, each time the impact on her lessened though the meaning and feeling behind them never waned. She was her Father's Hand when He had no Hand to give, and that was how it had always been. He squirmed slightly in her grasp as she tightened her grip, his misshapen hands rising to his neck as he fought against the invisible force that was currently crushing his windpipe into a shoelace. She wouldn't rip his lungs from his chest, nor would she grate them, deciding that she had made enough mess for one day, enough clutter and fuss for at least another year or so before she'd sentence the next heathen to the same divine end.

"Ple-"

"It must be d-"

_Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more._

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she muttered, switching her concentration to her other hand as she fumbled in her stockings for her phone, finally managing to pull the thing from the lace after various attempts to untangle it from the copious amounts of frayed elastic and cotton.

Not many things managed to stop her heart, as her kind were fearless and headstrong more often than not, though if you were to hazard a guess as to what would halt the beat of an Angel's heart I submit to you it would not be a caller I.D. But this particular Principality, highest Order of the Third Angelic Sphere, felt her body go stone cold, her world freeze. The light in the top right hand corner of her mobile flashed blue erratically, a buzzing phone symbol blinking on and off as the phone vibrated in her hand. She made no move to answer the call yet, allowing it to ring a little before she even dared slide her finger across the touch screen to accept it.

"Hello?"

"_Have I caught you at a bad time?"_

Anna bit her lip, "not at all." The Angel dropped her prey like a stone, his body hitting the tiles with a sickening thump and a crack that even managed to send shivers through _her_ thick skin. She even managed to wince a little.

"How may I be of service?"

"_You've been called in." _

"What do you mean," she frowned, flexing her fingers. "I haven't been called in since-"

"_I know. But the orders have come straight from him – so you know how it is."_

"But Sam-"

"_Straight from him Sab."_

Orders came from her 'Brother' as often as compassion or a Father damn sense of humour. Her wings shivered in a sick sense of trepidation, her body fighting its natural curiosity to take a more sensible approach – one that meant fearing the fuck out of whatever it was she'd been assigned to. He'd assigned her to some absolute bullshit in the past, forced her to watch atrocities, commanding her never to lift a finger until the very end. She'd seen scores of men, women and children die, never allowed to punish the culprits unless she was given the green light to do so, having to suffer through each and every event over and over again as history just so happened to 'repeat' itself. She'd met some sons of bitches in her time – but Michael was one big bag of dicks.

"Alright – I'm coming in."

With a final flick of her wings she turned her back on Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx, her phone in her hand, a black feather in her other that she let drop into the raging waters. She blinked out before the real panic started, already managing to hear the confusion outside as men and women slipped on a growing tide of reddening water, the mass darkening the carpets, staining the floor tiles. The place would be shut down by police; the staff would lose their jobs and find a more respectable way of earning a living and Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx would be buried in a gold plated coffin on the family plot and all would be well with the world. With no one to fund the development project on the outskirts of town the men would lose their work and construction would stop, the impact on her Father's creation lessening just that little bit more. It was a win-win situation for her, though the humans would suffer a little (though in her mind they were purely collateral damage – there'd always be more). Though this time round the usually cold and precise Principality had found herself friends amongst the girls, found solace and comfort in creatures like Ella and in Bea. They had shown her kindness, something she never often came across in her line of work. So her final thoughts that night were not of the fat cat's broken remains (as they so often were after a job), but of the girl's that had shown her warmth – others like Ella even going as far as compassion. And that, for her, was an uneasy feeling indeed.

.:(*):.

_Have I caught you at a bad time?_

Of course he'd caught her at a bad time – he always caught her at a fucking bad time. That was Michael's way. At the end of the day, if it was Michael's way (which it was) it was always fucking Sam's way too the son of a bitch.

The little Angel stormed her way down the sidewalk, heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete slabs, her eyes consuming all colours of the visible light spectrum as streetlamps flashed overhead, some of them exploding completely if she personally walked too close to a lamppost. The night had become thick with panic as car alarms whined and dogs barked, the combined sounds manifesting into one large, deafening wall of noise. He'd made an entrance (as he so often did), his entity completely disrupting all manner of things though she herself had managed to cause at least some damage that night, the sirens that somehow managed to cut through the noise statement to that.

The wind had picked up considerably, collecting in the flaps of her coat and almost pushing the young woman backwards. Her hair was cast across her eyes, leaves and other general litter flittering across the tarmacked surface of the ground, trees bending beneath their own weight. It was completely uncalled for, but she had to admit that he had her attention. The icy wind planted sharp kisses upon her cheeks, dying them pink with its breath, night's safe arms encasing her almost completely, shielding her dithering vessel from prying mortal eyes. To anyone else she looked like a common prostitute, body bare to the elements, eyes and lips darkened by paint and by liner. They couldn't see the darkness of her wings merging with the night, the way the bulk of her feathers blocked great swathes of stars from the sky as though the constellations themselves had been eaten or rubbed away.

"You better have a good reason for interrupting my night."

She took a seat next to him, the bench seemingly empty to any passers-by, non-existent to those who felt the need to take a seat. The lights around the two beings stopped flickering, the strain on the bulbs putting them out entirely for a little while, casting the world into complete darkness. All that was left for them was the wall of noise, the growing mist of natural and unnatural sounds that seemed to be developing ever bigger as long as darkness and chaos had hold.

"It's been a long time Sab."

Her heart stopped beating in her chest at the sound of his voice, a cheery and generally pleasant tone but one that was all but void of feeling. He leant back in the bench as he regarded her out of the corner of his eye; she could feel his eyes roaming her vessel – her body. She knew he'd noticed her state, the bullet holes she wore like badges pinned to her skin, but he did nothing but smile. She closed her eyes, pursing her lips against the bite of the wind.

"Hello Sam."

"It's been a while."

"Not as long as it could be," she uttered under her breath, running a hand through her short hair. "Twenty two years isn't long when you consider the grand scheme of things."

He smiled slightly, "It was such a shame we had to meet under such _unfortunate _circumstances."

"I think Chernobyl was a little bit more than an _unfortunate circumstance_," she hissed.

Her last Orders from her Brothers, Michael's words delivered to her on a breath by Sam one late spring afternoon. It had been raining; she remembered the grass being quite wet between her toes. She recalled the aftermath, the environmental impact, the mutations – the pain. She'd been scarred by what her Father's creations had managed to do, what monstrosities it had created in her perfect world.

She shook her head, ridding herself of the memory. "My order-"

"You have a new Charge."

He flicked a nickel idly between his fingers, the small coin disappearing every now and again up his one sleeve, only to appear against his palm where it'd begin adventuring through its course once more. A silly little habit of his, one she found most endearing, though he seemed 'off' slightly, as though he hadn't quite settled fully in his vessel. She could smell it, sense it, how new it was, how his Grace shifted within the veins of the man he inhabited as he tried to make himself comfortable. It was a true vessel, not a temp, but like a new pair of shoes he hadn't yet moulded it to his shape and size, the measurements that little bit off, enough to make him squirm inside his own skin.

"I see you've gone for your usual style."

"Oh – you noticed?" He smiled, taking on a much more pleasant air.

"As predictable as usual," she offered back dryly.

His smile faded. "You know me so well Sister."

Her Brother was unlike her in almost every conceivable way, though if you were to look deeper they shared the similarities of blood and kin. Her glossy black wings dwarfed his creamy feathers, oil settling alongside caramel. They were now as they always had been, black on white, dark against fair. He'd been settled inside the same family of vessels for hundreds of years, taking it a generation at a time, following the bloodline through, maintaining an almost 'Arian' trend of fair hair and bright eyes whilst she had remained in her Anna Partridge, her bright eyed and black haired skin she wore as though it was her own. But, despite his blatant discomfort, Samael's mind was surprisingly quiet and subdued, no mutterings or mumblings of a Secondary Soul, as though there was no one else hitching a ride other than the Angel that had managed to fill the body until it was fit to burst.

"He's quiet Brother. Why is that so?"

The nickel paused in his palm, the tip of his thumb rubbing the textured surface methodically. "Christopher is just a little… subdued."

Anna raised an eyebrow, "Why is-"

"He lost his father."

She shut her mouth. "I see."

Samael sighed, settling back into the wooden slats of the bench, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "You more than anyone would understand – how much they _feel. _Honestly Sab it's unbearable."

"He called for you?"

"To save him – yes. I could not however – he was too far gone - Reaper had him in his arms before I could even lift a finger. But we'd made a deal, and despite himself he held himself to his vow and – well – here I am."

She sniffed a little, slightly unbelieving. "You sound as though you care."

"You grow attached to them – like pets. As I said – you of all people should understand."

And there it was – the Angelic fucking attitude all the pricks Upstairs held with regards to her Father's 'lesser' creations. Anna sighed and relaxed a little, far more at ease in her Brother's company now that he was acting more like his ignorant self. To walk the line between Heaven and Earth was all well and good, but it didn't give you very many 'people skills', nor did it allow him much 'face to face' time with the very things he interacted with on a daily basis. She however got plenty of time to fight, fuck and fancy the things her Father had built so imperfectly, creatures she knew were capable of bravery, beauty and benevolence alongside their insatiable habit to destroy and misuse. But Upstairs didn't see that – Upstairs were too fucking short-sighted to understand the complexities of human emotion, none of them even bothering to spend more than a few years amongst them on whatever Michael-forsaken errand they had been sent to run before returning back to 'Paradise.' She was just lucky that her Brother wasn't like the rest of them, capable of a limited range of understanding instead of sharing the emotional range of a brick her Brothers and Sisters and Cousins so often demonstrated.

"So-"she began, changing the subject, "my orders?"

"Oh – yeah. Your Charge."

_Was the news really that good?_

"She's a small and highly insignificant little insect but for reasons beyond my understanding it has been ordered that she must be kept from perishing. I could not care less for her, but it is you to whom she is charged and therefore my own biases can be kept to myself. Enjoy her Sabriel," he sneered, undoing a zip on his leather jacket, his hand disappearing inside some pocket or other to reach for her papers. "Enjoy her while you can anyway."

"What do you mean?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"She's another one with a nasty habit – a Hunter habit. Can't get enough of murder, mutilation and massacre to sate her vile appetite. Here – this is who'll you be looking for-"

"Fantastic," she mumbled, begrudgingly taking the papers into her own hands, flicking through the file as though nothing could interest her more. Photos from traffic cameras and CCTV fell between torn family photos and ID pictures, school pictures of a young, innocent and smiling girl interlaced with gun store CCTV images of a young woman with hard eyes and an even harder smile handling a shotgun with a far too practiced precision.

She'd dealt with Hunters before, bumped into one every now and again on her travels around the world. They'd often arrived in the area after she'd 'visited', the mysterious circumstances under which her 'jobs' perished sparking their interest or curiosity and then the fucking idiots would just_ have _to dig their noses in to take a closer look. And they'd always find her calling card, a single black feather lying atop what would be left of a hand or a chest. She often lay in bed at night tracking the little pieces of herself across the country, wondering where her feathers were, envisioning them tucked away in a case file or another, in an evidence bag in a locker or in a glass case in a museum. She'd also killed her fair share of Hunters-

"And I cannot decline this offer?"

She saw him smile, the nickel restarting its intrepid journey, "not unless you want the full weight of Upstairs bearing down on your ass –no."

She nibbled her lip, tucking the brown file into the inner workings of her coat, her wings humming at her back, hinting at her irritation.

"I suppose I have no choice but to accept then do I?"

Samael rose from his seat, his wings flickering with Grace as he stretched them out wide behind him, doing the same with his arms above his head. A small silver cross sat boldly against his chest, the metal glinting violently in what little light remained. He pulled his jacket a little tighter around his shoulders, the little silver coin disappearing back up his sleeve as he adjusted his zippers. He turned to her and regarded her with a borderline disgruntled expression as she spread her body out across the bench into the newly available space, the cold metal of the armrests digging into the backs of her legs, the very tips of her toes just about managing to brush the floor. She offered him a dry smile as she folded her arms behind her head, setting herself up for the night as she buried her chin into the copious folds of her collar, closing her eyes against the wall of noise that still managed to suffocate the area, comfortable against a bed of feathers and down.

"You're meeting her at a 'Danny's Bar' in Sedalia on the 3rd."

"Am I now?" she muttered, one eye opening. "Who says so?"

"She does," he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It is as she will See and therefore it is how it shall be done."

"I see."

"Oh – and Sabriel?"

"What?" she hissed, her other eye opening, her glare meeting a leather clad back.

She could hear the smile in his voice as he blinked out.

"_Put on some fucking clothes."_


	6. Chapter Five: Pistols and Jeans

**Author's Note:**

**Rebekah and Meredith**

_Recommended Playlist:_

_Goldfrapp – A&E_

_Florence and the Machine – The Blinding_

* * *

**Chapter Five:**

_Rock Port, Missouri. 6:55 a.m._

_Monday 22__nd__ September 2008. _

_She sits comfortably at her table in the corner, wearing a distinctly bored expression as she takes another sip of alcohol. She checks the clock on the wall, makes sure it's still moving. It's half past five in the afternoon, the date being the 3__rd__. She seems irritable. People move by like wraiths in the background, blurred blocks of colour and sound, surrounding her in an out of focus current of life and motion. She is alone, her legs crossed, one foot tapping impatiently against the bar of her stool. Another mouthful of alcohol follows. _

_Her eyes stare at nothing yet seem to see far more. It looks as though she is focusing on and listening into something beyond the room she is in. 'Danny's Bar' shines brightly on the wall above the door, curling loops of neon reflecting oddly in the bottles of liquor. Her eyes seems to roam whenever she moves them, her irises catching the light of different sources and shifting through a myriad of colours though it seems she favours blue. She takes a final sip of her cider and places the bottle on the table. The vision fades. Wings flutter._

"_You're late."_

It was still dark when she opened her eyes, the light of morning barely able to force its way through the slats of their blinds as the sun heaved itself lazily up off the horizon, raking her claws through what remained of night's influence in the sky. Vision and Sight were still heavy on her consciousness and Beck allowed herself to have a brief respite from the real world for a moment, her body and mind stuck floating somewhere not quite here or not quite there, somewhere stuck in a delightfully pleasant limbo that she didn't quite want to leave. But she had to. They had to go. But the pull of her Sight was too strong for her weakened state. She couldn't fight its pull as it dragged her back down, her body happy and more than willing to ease her into the semi-conscious state that seemed to be a place between Vision, Dream and Reality. Images and memories shifted into one another, faces morphing from those of her family to those of hunts past, carrion crows flying alongside running hunting dogs, the feeling of gentle hands against her skin.

( )

When she woke she felt as though the world was not hers. It was the room she remembered from the night before, every detail down to the cracked ceiling tile above her head, but it was not hers. She hadn't been out long, the sun barely managing to lift itself another heavy inch. But as she looked around from the sanctity of her bed she faced a growing unease, noting things that were not as they seemed - objects that had no place in amongst the pastel fabrics of Mer's cast-offs, jackets slung over the backs of seats that did not belong to her. A too-big pair of boots by the door, a gun without her brother's initials carved into the barrel, a pair of car keys on the dresser that sat nakedly in comparison to her own, deprived of the clutter of a million key rings.

The room smelt wrong; gone was the floral scent of her friend's perfume but in its place sat something entirely different, a musky, heavy scent that she was entirely too familiar with having grown up surrounded by boys her entire life. It was man-scent, the smells of aftershave and of spray that was in no way like the rose-scented soaps she used against her skin nor the lavender she dried her clothes with. It was a comforting, homely smell, one tainted thick with nostalgia, a childhood brought up surrounded by men and male scents. But it was entirely alien here in their feminine domain, and Rebekah could feel the panic rising in her chest. Something was wrong.

She shook the black feathers from her brain as she gently propped herself up onto her elbows, scanning the room with squinted eyes as she tried in vain to protect herself against the beams of light that cut across her vision. Mer shifted at her side, one warm hand coming to rest against her thigh as she rolled over in her sleep, morning's semi-consciousness playing havoc with the girl's sense of reality, her lips humming as she mumbled inaudibly to herself in her sleep. Beck tucked a stray strand of her friend's hair behind her ear, almost weeping with relief to see her alive again, frowning as her fingertips met with congealed blood and medical tape, muttering a million profanities under her own breath as she carefully peeled the cover's back from the Stalker's still form, the bruises that mottled her friend's fair skin screaming in contrast against the off-white sheets and dirty clothes, mud, grit and blood still clinging to the folds of her skirt. Bandaged feet and gashes stitched to perfection followed as the hunter explored, peeling back gauze to examine the work done, always moving on to the next wound impressed.

Her hands shifted to her own half-naked form, her fingers tugging gently at the swathes of bandages that snaked their way up her body, tongue running over the cuts in her cracked lips rekindling the metallic taste of blood on her pallet. She didn't ache yet but she knew she would later that day if not the next. Rebekah felt drugged, lethargic and far too sluggish for her liking, as though she was hopped up on meds or still had a bottle's worth of whiskey still pumping through her veins. Heavy headed, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, shaking off the nausea that followed. She awkwardly reached across to her bedside table for a shirt, swearing under her breath as her ribs strained against her bonds, a pain that nearly sent her back into unconsciousness.

The little hunter heaved herself up off the bed using the nightstand as support, wobbling like a deer on her feet as she tried to gain balance in a world that didn't seem to want to stop moving. She stumbled into the wall as she made her way towards the wardrobes, hastily grabbing a knapsack and stuffing it full of their half packed, half unpacked clothes, throwing a pair of jeans at Mer who she could hear steadily coming to terms with that morning's hangover, the Stalker groaning pitifully into a pillow as she wriggled and writhed against the sheets.

"Mer," she hissed, gracelessly pulling on a boot. "Mer – get the fuck up Mer. Now."

Rebekah stumbled over to the dresser, admiring the heinous sight of herself in the only mirror their room had to offer. She was all mattered hair and wild eyes, a dark bruise forming along her jawline, bottom lip cracked and blue from blood. She stood to her full height and stepped back somewhat shocked at the state of herself, embarrassment tinting her grimy cheeks pink. In her boots she stood a little taller than she would have normally been, long legs bruise blackened, her knees both discoloured masses of gashes and swelling from where she'd gone down lord knew how many hours ago (what seemed to her like days). And someone, someone she did not know, had stripped her down to her underwear, a little pair of baby blue briefs and her socks and treated every damaged inch of skin on her body. And that – that scared her more than anything.

She hissed again, "Mer – get up. We gotta' go."

( )

She watched him from across the room, eyes never leaving his sleeping form, shotgun on her knees, fingers poised delicately over the trigger. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Meredith hesitate at the bathroom door, lips dripping with white foam, toothbrush in hand, gun in the other (just as Rebekah had instructed). She'd discovered him whilst she was still in her underwear, one boot on, one boot off, battling with the laces in the middle of brushing her own teeth after her shower. At the sight of him she'd spat the foam in the plant pot on the counter and dived somewhat clumsily into the nearest corner, heart racing, cheeks flushing, wondering how on earth she'd managed to miss such a gargantuan creature that had so slung himself so blatantly across their sofa. So the gun had come out, she'd pulled on some shorts and buttoned up her shirt and sat watch ever since as Mer packed up the rest of their things by the door and got herself fairly presentable.

She rested her chin in her hand, fingertips caressing the cold metal of the gun's barrels. She found herself lulled by the rise and fall of his chest, the flickering of his eyes beneath his lids as he dreamed of things she could only imagine. She was suspicious of him – terribly frightened despite trying to shake off the feelings. He was familiar in an awfully unnerving way, the face of a person she'd more than likely bumped into at a gas station or on the street than someone she knew personally. A ghost of an identity, a face that flitted in and out of memory like a wraith. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she'd allowed him to sleep on instead of waking him with the cold butt of her gun and that, more than anything, showed she believed he meant her little harm (thought it was always better to be safe than sorry). She leant back in the chair and examined that face, a picture so serene and so tranquil even she found herself letting her guard down at least a little. He was a mass of messy brown hair and limbs, all of them sprawled this way and that across the cushions of the couch, one arm resting lightly by his head, the other brushing the floor. His lips were parted slightly as he sucked in and blew out deep breaths, the hairs that hung over his eyes shivering at every exhale.

"Beck – I'm done."

_How long had she been there?_

Meredith's arms were crossed, her whole body leaning lightly against the transition wall that marked the space between the bedroom and the living area. She looked drained, hair limply framing her face, heavy with shower water and floral shampoo that seemed to just about banish the scent of male presence from the immediate area. Now that she was clean and pristine the damage the little Stalker had suffered was all the more apparent, bruises mottling her skin in places Beck had overlooked due to previous dirt, grime or grazes that had now been washed away by warm water. She caught her eye and nodded, slinging her gun over one shoulder and a back pack and knapsack over the other and heaved herself up out of the chair, wincing as the springs whined in protest.

"Is everythin'-"

"Everythin's fine," the hunter retorted, a little too quickly. "Let's just get outta' here."

Mer opened the door and exited first, Beck being the last to leave as she checked the room for any belongings she knew the little Stalker may have left behind. She picked up one of her socks and pulled a bottle of perfume from the bottom of one of the drawers, her hands lingering on the worn leather of a man's jacket that sat slung over the dresser, the tell-tale fragrances of aftershave and car fuel clinging to the tattered fabric. She folded the jacket neatly and, almost missing the passing thought, pulled a business card from her pack and half tucked it into one of the pockets. She skirted around his sleeping form as silent as a mouse, taking one last look at the man she guessed had saved their lives, her eyes lingering on the hands she could still feel touching her body, piecing her back together. Then, after sucking in a breath, she stepped out into the light of the morning sun and closed the door behind her.

She was attacked almost immediately, virtually knocked off her feet as her bare, bandaged legs were treated to Axel's boundless morning kisses. She shielded her eyes against the glare of sunrise, hazy images of a deserted parking lot and her wheeled home spluttering into vision as her eyes became accustomed to the change in venues. All around her animal's swarmed, Sky's head butting her thigh, Axel's teeth taking to the tongue of her boots and her laces as his attentions moved elsewhere, the call of faux leather seeming to be far stronger than the taste of her rose-scented skin. She propped the gun and bags against the wall and entered the fray, her battered body somehow soothed by trampling paws and endless amounts of slobber, dog saliva seeming a far better painkiller than penicillin.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Rebekah reached for her gun instinctively, not the shotgun she'd rested against the wall but the pistol she'd found and stuffed down the back of her shorts. She was on her feet in a second, eyes narrowed, lip bitten, barrel aiming right over the heart of the stranger that had greeted her with so much familiarity, a man that was currently holding his hands in a position of surrender though his face spoke otherwise. Alistair, surprisingly, stood at his side.

"I'd put that down if I was you sweetheart," he grinned, pulling aside his open jacket, glint of a gun handle almost blinding her. "You don't wanna' start this."

"Beck – Beck no. He's that guy! Beck he helped me. For fuck's sake Beck put the gun down."

"I'd listen to her," he smiled, nodding his head in Meredith's direction as she came barrelling up the stairs.

She regarded him distrustfully, eyeing up the weapon at his waist, feeling her own shaking in her hands. She was so tired and so fucking high strung she could feel herself unravelling. She shivered in the cool light of the morning, goose bumps rising on her legs and arms, forcing her to pull her plaid even closer to her bandaged skin as she attempted to keep in what little warmth she could whilst still attempting to look as though she had a grip on things.

"Beck-"

"Mer – seriously. Just – stop talkin' for a sec. I need to think."

He frowned, lowering his arms to his sides, one hand never far away from the gun he too had stuffed down the back of his jeans. He was a damned bit smaller than the other one, hair shorter, eyes so bright she couldn't look at them directly for more than a minute or so before she had to force herself to look away. He just stood there, eyes on her, bare-chested in the morning light, smile long gone. And God damn it he had to be one of the most beautiful people she'd ever seen in her life.

"Who the hell are you?" she challenged.

"Dean. I'm a hunter. Just like you."

"How do you know-"

"You're a hunter? Quite simple really- what with the anti-possession tattoo you have inked by your hip or the blatant disregard you have for your own freakin' safety takin' on a demon like that by yourself, in the middle of the night, meanin' my brother and I had to come and save your sorry asses!"

"Excuse me? What demon? Where the hell – who the hell do you think you are anyway? We were attacked – I reacted. That's what people do. I didn't go lookin' for a fuckin' fight!"

"What demon? What. Demon. Are you serious? The demon my brother had to freakin' exorcise – we saved your lives!"

She could see he was angry, though the extent of his frustration surprised her. It was as though her dismissal of the demon had hit a nerve, as though he'd taken it personally. The more she thought about it the more her head hurt as the attempted to wade through the haze of the previous night's events, trying in vain to find a black eyed creature in amongst the mass of faces, feeling almost at a loss when she could not. He was so close to her now she could already feel the heat of his body against hers though, as he took another daring step towards her and she put a hand out to stop him, she was shocked at how cold his skin was beneath her feverish palm. It was as though he'd been out all night. She didn't know what to believe. In her mind she recalled very little, fleeting glimpses into the night's proceedings that made barely any sense yet still tried to persuade her that her recollection was correct – that there had been no demon, that she and her friend had been attacked by a gang, that she'd been saved by –

"Sam."

The name sat on her tongue, caressed her lips on exhale. It seemed foreign though, just like his face, all too familiar. A ghost of an identity.

"Right – Sam. My brother."

His anger seemed to have evaporated, his chest no longer heaving with tension beneath her touch though she could still feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. Around them the dogs and her friend shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed, though Rebekah made no attempt to move, Dean doing the same. Her eyes inspected the grain in the wooden decking as she forced her way through the barriers alcohol had created in her mind, as was the case whenever she'd drunken heavily, though she knew she would have swapped a hangover for memory-loss any day considering how sickly Mer looked in the unforgiving light of morning. Images of Sight mixed chaotically with slivers of fractured memory, the resulting concoction leaving her head aching. She shook away the thoughts, leaving her memory of Sam as he was on the couch and not the dark creature she'd seen the night before.

"There was no demon," she mumbled, hand moving beneath his jacket, fingertips brushing hesitantly across the black lines of the anti-possession tattoo that sat neatly below his collarbone, the symbol mirroring the one she wore on her hip almost exactly. "I would have remembered," she muttered again, more to herself this time. "I would have."

"Beck-"

"I'm sure."

Her mind was ragged and, like her body, needed desperately to be patched up again. She blinked back his memories, his feelings as they rushed through her fingertips, sizzled against her palm. They weren't hers - she'd discard them later. Only now did she realise how long they'd been standing together like that, so frighteningly intimate for two strangers that she immediately took an unsteady step backwards, wringing her hands together as though that would rid her of the feeling of him from her fingertips. Black feathers still cluttered her brain, a liquor-haze still suffocating her sense of reality and fantasy. When she finally returned to him all sense of aggression was gone from his body language leaving behind a sick sense of pity that made her feel vulnerable – even ill.

"Dean I – I'm sorry. I am – truly. We've got to go – I _have_ to go. Thank you for savin' her I mean – I don't know what I would have done if-"

"It's alright," he offered, taking a tentative step towards her, "It's fine."

She shied back from him, reaching instead for her shotgun and bags. She wasn't herself, a shadow of the person she'd been in the truck the day before. Her nerves were shot, memories and thoughts all over the place. If it were any other situation she wouldn't have dared get behind the wheel, but she needed out, her mind seeking solace in the familiarity of the open road and the simplicity of the impending journey. Concern tainted his expression though he let her pass, allowing her to make her way shakily down the steps to the truck, watching her in silence, arms crossed across his chest as she slung the bags into the bed, sliding the shotgun into the foot well of passenger side. Her Pack swarmed around her feet, Alistair tearing himself away from the hunter's side to join his master's, the old dog hopping up into the middle seat of the truck as Sky and Axel made themselves at home in the back. She leant against the steadily heating metal of her home, feeling more supported than she had since she'd woken that morning, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun as she motioned for Mer to get in.

"I owe you a debt Dean – I really do. I'm just sorry I – well we just can't stay."

"Are you alright to dr-"

She waved away his concerns, "I'm fine – really," she smiled half-heartedly, nibbling at her lip. "There was no demon Dean – I'm sorry. Your brother – well he saved my life – that much I know but – well he must'a been mistaken."

He nodded.

"I'm sorry."

( )

The road out of Rock Port was desolate, the Route 29 just another twisted grey band of tarmac worming its way through ever bleaker countryside. Fields yawned lazily either side of the highway, the early morning fog nipping at the heels of the truck as they sped down the empty road, the mist forming ever more thickly as their wheels ate up the kilometres. There was water in the air, thick and heavy from rain just fallen. Rebekah wound down the window and placed her arm on the sill, feeling the dampness of what could only be called grey collecting in the rising hairs on her arms. Meredith was even quieter than usual, the girl slipping in and out of consciousness as though her body could no longer decide whether or not it needed sleep.

They had a long journey ahead of them if they wanted to get to Brookfield, a goal that hadn't seemed so far away a day or so back when she'd actually originally made the decision to go. A single lorry overtook them in the outside lane, the driver saluting her in a way only people of the road would, a gesture Rebekah quickly returned. Its great silver barrel trundled past on its little wheels, whipping the young hunter's hair into a frenzy as they found themselves caught in the after-draft, rain and groundwater spraying her skin as the last wheel passed them. She wiped her face on her sleeve, running her right hand through her still matted hair.

She was ravenous. She couldn't remember the last thing she'd eaten, but she knew she'd gone longer without in the past and not felt like that. It was a gut-wrenching feeling, as though her insides had begun to chew on themselves. She shook her head, bathed herself in the rain, dug her nails into the worn rubber of the steering wheel. They didn't have time to stop. She nibbled her lip, explored her immediate area for scraps of anything she could dig into until she could sat herself a little further down the line. Beck pulled half a roll of mints from beneath the dash, discovered a bags of chips beneath her seat which were still just about in date (give or take a few days). It wouldn't be enough, but it was better than nothing.

A call on the private mobile shattered their quiet solitude, the ringtone somehow managing to ground and tether both girls to the present as they dragged themselves back into reality from wherever it was their thoughts had taken them. Mer shifted awkwardly in her seat as Beck leant forward and pulled the phone from the drawer, the little thing vibrating in her lap as she tried to fix the headpiece to her ear with her free hand, the other resting on the wheel. Meredith watched her with tired eyes, knees tucked beneath her small form that looked even more bird-like beneath the soft pink of her cardigan, offering her friend a small smile of reassurance as Rebekah slid her finger across the touchscreen and answered the call.

"Aston private line – how may I help?"

"Beck?"

"Jake?"

"We need to talk – _now_."

Her stomach felt like a lump of rock in her body, something sitting far too heavy and not quite right in her gut. His voice sounded cold, not at all what she'd have expected from her brother, the emphasis on the 'now' implying she was in more trouble than she could shake a stick at. His voice echoed out just loud enough for Meredith to hear, her friend wrapping a fragile hand around hers, pale skin against tan, turning her gaze elsewhere as though that would make the situation more bearable. Beck sucked in as much air as she could into her lungs, exhaling long and deep down the mouthpiece.

"What's wrong Jake?"

"I think you know what's wrong. I've been worried fuckin' sick."

"I've only been gone a few days Jake I-"

"Where are you?"

She exchanged worried glances with Meredith, feeling the little Stalker's grip tighten on her hand.

"Route 29 outside Rock Port – we're heading through Saint Joseph to-"

"I know where you're fuckin' headin' Rebekah – I got a call from one of the hunters up at Brookfield askin' me if the Seer's _big brother_ had any tips on how to kill the things you think you'll be huntin' in a few days," he spat. "If you think I'm gonna' let you-"

She bit her lip, "you don't have much of a choice Jake."

He hissed, "Don't tell me I don't have much choice Rebekah – I'm your brother – you listen to me."

"You're not Joe Jake – stop tryin' to be."

The truck was plunged into silence. Beck sucked in a breath of shock – Meredith even seeming surprised at the words that had come out of her mouth. She hadn't known she was capable of such hurt, such poison. Her words had tasted so bitter and sour on her tongue she'd spat them out, but now more than ever she wished she was able to take something back. He was worried about her; he was always worried about her. They'd hunted a hunt at Brookfield years and years ago, back when she'd been as tall as Mer and younger than Sky, not daring to rebel against her brothers when they told her that it was too dangerous for her to go along and watch, that Vampires were something to be feared. Jake had almost died on that hunt, coming back all bloody and bruised, so close to being bitten he'd made Joe swear to plant a bullet in his skull if it ever came to it. He was worried about her – he always fucking worried.

"Jake I-"

"Just – don't. Just come home. We'll talk there."

She closed her eyes for a moment, hardly believing what she was about to say.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," she sighed, reopening her eyes to the road, rebellion curdling her stomach. "I'm a big girl now – I can handle this."

There was an intake of breath on the receiving end, a long and awkward silence that seemed to stretch on beyond it's time. Axel shifted nervously in the back as silence descended, the loss of his master's voice opening up a void that could not be filled by the hum of the engine or the melodic ping of gravel against metal. When Jake spoke, his voice was dead.

"Remember what happened the last time you said that."

_Jake lifts his jacket from the chair and shrugs it on, reaching for his gun. I follow each move, Joe setting Alistair in his hunting harness in the living room. The wooden floorboards beneath my feet shake violently, the walls inverting. It is memory, heavy with memory. _

"_No. I'm coming."_

"_No you are not."_

_Jake. Always Jake. This is ridiculous. I can do this – I'm certain. _

"_Why?"_

"_You're not ready Beck. I'm not havin' you-"_

"_But-"_

"_He's right Beck," Joe says as he pulls his jacket on. "You aren't ready. There's too many of them and you're too young."_

"_I'm not too young Joe!" I shout, dragging on my coat, shoving a pistol into the back of my jeans. "Why do you keep saying that?"_

"_Because it's the truth you idiot," he hisses, grabbing me by my shoulders and shaking me until my knees buckle. "Don't you think I've worked this job long enough to know?"_

_I look away from him but he grabs my face, forcing me to look at him. The walls begin to disintegrate. His eyes plead._

"_Beck please-"_

"_I'm a big girl," I say defiantly, wriggling out of my brother's grasp. "I can handle this."_

_I shrug on a rucksack and step out, slamming the door behind me. _

_There's metal at my back, a cold and silver shaft digging into my spine. The winter wind bites at my skin, making my cheeks pink and my fingers sting as I fumble with a lock. My world begins to unfold like a piece of paper, distant hills and trees painting themselves in carefully, some areas far more detailed than others, some places a patchwork of different memories to fill in empty or blank spaces. The wood of the porch creaks above my head. There are voices echoing through time, some from behind the windows, others remnants of conversations linked through topic or purpose. The lock clicks._

When Rebekah woke it was chaos. Horns blared behind her, big and thunderous noises that seemed to echo in the emptiness of her chest, all air knocked from her body. She gasped, snatching a breath. All of the dogs were barking, their claws raking the fabric of the seats, their tails thumping against her back as she raised her head from the steering wheel. The world outside seemed drunk, the horizon turning vertical and the sky becoming the earth, the long straight road that was Route 29 wavering in places Beck knew it shouldn't. And there was pain, pain everywhere, in so many places she couldn't even tell what hurt more.

"What the hell-"

Meredith hung limply in her seatbelt bonds, head resting against the dashboard, a cut on her forehead bleeding openly into her lap, staining yet more clothes red. They'd have to go shopping. The girl groaned, dragged her body back into the seat, eyes roaming the roof of the car as Rebekah clicked her fingers in front of her eyes, trying to get her friend to focus – to bring her back to the world of the living.

"Mer – Mer," she muttered franticly, giving her shoulder a soft shake, careful not to jolt her too much. "Mer?"

"I'm – m'okay. I'm okay."

"Oh thank God."

There was a bang from somewhere in the distance, the sound of footsteps – three knocks on the window. She turned her head, resting her forehead back on the wheel of the truck as she flicked the switch to wind the window down on the passenger side, Alistair backing away even deeper into the foot-well as a man popped his head through the gap.

"You alright? You took a nasty bump there. Want me to call the police or somethin'?"

Rebekah groaned a little, pushing herself up using the dashboard as leverage, resting her head in the dip of the headrest. His face seemed to shimmer all different colours and shapes, so many she had to look away.

"Miss? Miss? Are you alright? Oh God – do I need to call 911?"

"No, no-" Rebekah muttered, shaking her head. She hissed as pain shot down her back , making the tips of her fingers tickle. "I don't need to go to the hospital. We're fine."

"Are you sure?" The poor fellow looked concerned, so much so she found herself softening her tone.

"We're fine – honestly. Just-"

"Somethin' ran out in the middle of the road and she must 'a slammed on the brakes to miss it. At least I think that's what happened," Mer offered, her hand still somehow managing to remain entangled with Rebekah's.

She threw him a lopsided smile – something that seemed to sate the poor gentleman. Rebekah could hear an incessant muttering from somewhere beneath her feet, though it took her a while before she figured out it was her brother on the headset.

"Now you know you shouldn't do that," he sighed, resting his arms on the door, "you should-"

"I know, I know," she mumbled, wiping the wetness away from her forehead with her sleeve, the fabric coming away red. "You should speed up but – we just didn't have the heart."

Another half-hearted smile, a sincere thank you and a sip of water and they were eating up the miles again, new Missouri territory flying by either side of them as the young hunter and even younger Stalker attempted to put as much distance between them and the crash site as they possibly could. Hospital was not a good place for a Hunter, 911 being a more frightening combination to their kind than 666. It seemed as though Alistair had a slight concussion, the poor thing probably having been the first to hit the dashboard when she'd slammed on the brakes. When she'd re-set her rear view mirror she'd caught his eyes and she'd begun muttering to herself. The old boy was chastising her for being so stupid – she knew that. All manner of hell had broken loose in the truck, stuff all over the place, a spilt drinks can marking the passenger seat upholstery, books and sheets of loose paper filling foot-wells and covering seats from where'd they'd fallen out the seat pockets. It'd take some reorganising, but now was not the time for that. That was a job for when they hit Saint Joseph.

"Jake?"

"What the hell happened?"

"Furry son of a bitch darted across the road so I hit the brakes," she muttered, Meredith squeezing her hand.

"Are you alright?"

She felt off – caught in a place halfway between reality and memory. She didn't feel snapped out of it, streaks of Sight flitting in and out of real life, shadows of Recall forcing her to question what was real. She shook her head as a younger Alistair appeared at the side of the road, massaging the back of her neck with the palm of her hand as she drove the truck with her knees.

"Yeah I'm fine, few cuts and bruises, Alistair's actin' like he's had a little too much whiskey but apart from that we're good."

"Oh thank God."

His concern was refreshing to her, her brother back as he should be. She shifted position in her seat and placed her hands back on the wheel, trying to ignore the blood that had spattered up the windscreen from where Mer's head had hit the dashboard.

"Beck I'm-"

"No Jake – don't. I'm sorry – I didn't mean what I said. You wouldn't be kin if you didn't worry about me. I understand that. I just – I need you to trust me. They can't do this without me."

"I know – I just can't-"

The rest of their conversation went somewhat unspoken, Rebekah filling her brother in on the details of the hunt and when she expected to be back, conveniently keeping out the events of the night previous so as not to rattle him more than he already was. She knew what he was going to say, it always went unsaid whenever she left for a job, leaving him leaning against the hood of his car, hand held to his eyes as he'd watch her go, hoping she'd turn her truck back into the drive and somehow regain some normality to her life. He couldn't lose her – not another one.

When Jake left her silence returned to the highway. She was in no mood to play music and added to that Alistair was most likely in the midst of the dog equivalent of a severe hangover and probably would not be in the mood for Muse or Paramore. They stopped at the nearest layby so that she could patch them up, checking her own injuries afterwards in the rear-view mirror. It could have been worse though – she'd sustained much worse in the past anyway. At the side of the road amongst the dust and the highway debris Rebekah treated the cut on Mer's forehead and did the best she could for bruised ribs and whiplash, apologising to her travelling family with a bowl of cool water from the trunk and a handful of biscuits and beef jerky, forgiveness coming as easy as a breath from the boxer with the bloody nose and watery eyes, all battle scars he'd sustained from careering head first into the back of the chair on the passenger side. Alistair never took his eyes off his master, and she knew he knew – he always knew.

Saint Joseph was a huge place, much bigger than she'd expected. Joe had taken his little sister there when she was very young – too young to remember though it had seemed bigger with her being smaller – that just seemed to be the way things worked. She'd called ahead to a few friends, those who'd always been close and loyal to the Aston Clan and what remained of them. She found it nice to have connections spaced so far apart, the whole 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' deal stretching not only across states and countries but across time. Friends of friends of friends, cousins of friends and friends of cousins – you name it and their number was written down if not in her phone contacts but in her brother's journals, people they could call on if they needed to lie low, if they needed money or care or a job that needed doing. That was the life of a hunter after all, a world of overlapping contacts and connections spanning countries, counties and continents.

Rebekah Aston and Meredith Parkes arrived at Eliza's in less time than they'd expected and all too soon the hunter and the Stalker found themselves off the road and set up in the guest bedroom, the dogs dotted here and there around the room and apartment. Salt lines had already been drawn beneath the windows and beneath the doors, and Rebekah found herself feeling safe and secure for the first time in what seemed like a very long time. She found it nice to stay somewhere – nice that she could make herself vulnerable in a place where the people knew what they were doing. Eliza had treated her for her whiplash, applying heat packs to almost every available stretch of skin after dunking her in the bath and washing the blood and dust out of her hair, something she hadn't had done in a long while. James (her husband) had cooked them their evening meal and they'd sat together, catching up and swapping hunting tales and generally having a decent time. They told her some stories about her mama that she never knew, told her how Shane was doing since they'd seen him last. And after a while, during the time Eliza had begun plaiting her and Mer's damp hair, it had started to feel like family.

Eliza and James were good people – good, innocent people. They'd been good friends of Bethany a long time ago, and when a ghost had begun murdering people in their apartment building the Aston brothers had saved them a whole lot of hassle. They believed they owed the Clan, and so whenever a being of Aston blood was in the area they'd always feel the urge to pop in and see how they were doing, though often Rebekah would end up being fed until she was fit to burst and unable to walk. Joe Aston has used them as a good and safe resting spot on his way through the state and, in return, had taught them how to protect themselves – something they seemed to have kept up all these years. And when her brother had died they'd been some of the first to arrive at the funeral, staying with them in the house long after the service had ended and their family home had become eerily empty. So, in some strange twist of fate, they'd become her family. But they were always too smart to stay for more than a few days – knowing very well how the dregs of hell could follow your scent no matter where you went. To lose the Johnsons would be like losing an Aunt and an Uncle – and for Rebekah that was just not acceptable.

But as she lay there, it was difficult not to feel comfortable and safe. The urge to stay longer was almost like an addiction, and Rebekah knew that the longer they stayed the less likely they'd be to leave. To have three meals a day with people instead of ghosts, to have the same bed to sleep in every night and someone to come home to that wasn't undead – to have all the things hunters didn't have. But all of the cushioned thoughts, no matter how powerful, cannot overcome the common sense that sits trained, obedient and instinctive at the back of the mind, the little voice that constantly reminds you that there is a job be done and the reasons why. For sadly, it is not thoughts of home and of morning toast and coffee or of warm baths and kind words that make you strong, it is the memories of murder and of blood. You don't fight for toast and warm baths – but you'd fight for life any day.

But as it was, that night, Rebekah and Meredith fell to sleep not with thoughts of murder and of blood, but with dreams of toast and of warm baths that just about managed to banish the nightmares away.


	7. Chapter Six: Secrets and Burger Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

**Rebekah and Meredith**

_Recommended Playlist:_

_Mumford and Sons – Broken Crown_

_The Pierces – The Good Samaritan_

_Ellie Goulding - Home_

* * *

**Chapter Six:**

_Route 29, Rock Port, Missouri. 10.07 a.m._

_Tuesday 23__rd__ September 2008. _

"Alright. Okay Bobby – thanks."

Sam sighed, leaning back against the bonnet of the impala as he slid his mobile into his front jeans pocket. His brother was busy stuffing his face with the most disgusting burger he had ever laid his eyes on, a weird looking mess of oozing sauces and foreign looking vegetables that didn't seem to sit well on the greying meat, though that didn't seem to put the somewhat ravenous Winchester off as he continued to make out with the bloody thing.

"Do you want me to leave you and the burger alone for a little while or-"

"You're just jealous."

Sam raised an eyebrow incredulously, "Me. Jealous. Of you and a burger?"

"Your heard me," he muttered, licking liquid-like cheese from his lips. "Jealous."

Sam laughed, crossing his arms over his chest as he observed the lesser-spotted elder Winchester polish off the last of his sickly looking prey.

"I really don't think-"

"It's because you didn't get laid the other night isn't it," he sniffed, sucking burger juices and bun flour from his fingers, "you and that hunter chick – the one whose life you saved."

"If my memory serves me right you didn't get laid either Ronald McDonald," he scoffed, throwing his brother a napkin.

"Yeah – but I'm not jealous of another man's burger – that's just sad."

"Dean-" Sam frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, "that doesn't even make any sense."

"Well I'm past making sense Sammy," Dean sighed, stretching his arms out above his head, throwing his used napkin back in the vague direction of his little brother, "we got about another four hours to get to Bobby's so-"

"Speaking of Bobby-"

Both boys swung themselves into their prospective seats, Dean wriggling about against the black leather of the Impala's driver's seat, spreading his legs for his baby, fingers drumming against the wheel as he made himself comfortable for the journey ahead. Sam on the other hand found himself clearing a path through Dean's leftovers, three burger wrappers and a box of half eaten fries taking his place as shotgun, drinks cans and candy wrappers littering the foot well.

"What about Bobby?" the eldest muttered, swinging the car out of the layby and back out onto the open road.

"Well – get this. He says the girl from last night is a kid called Rebekah Aston – as in _the Astons. _Dean we're talking about hunting royalty – in this area anyway."

"So – what's your point? I mean – we're hunting royalty – everyone knows us."

Sam sighed, "Dean that's not the point. It's just – cool that's all."

"Anything else then Prince Charming, or did you just want to stalk-"

"The little one is Meredith Parkers – she's a Stalker."

Dean frowned, taking his eyes off the road only long enough to throw his brother his best 'what-the-fuck-you-talking-about' face.

"A what?"

"A Stalker."

"So like you're being with these two random chicks?"

"No," he sighed, resting his chin on his hand, "as in the hunter type Stalker. She tracks and 'relocates' faerie things – bullshit stuff."

Dean snorted, "man – it was worth listening to you talk just to hear you say 'faerie things'. Say it again."

"Bite me."

( )

_Route 36, Brookfield, Missouri. 10.12 a.m._

_Tuesday 23__rd__ September 2008. _

It had been difficult leaving the sanctity of Eliza's arms, Mer barely able to tear herself away from the father she'd somehow managed to adopt overnight. But Rebekah was glad to see the back of Saint Joseph, happy to be out on the road again in the crisp, cool morning, tarmac evaporating under her tires as she sped down the highway as fast as her old home could carry them. They were both exhausted, though it only seemed to show on their exteriors. Internally both girls were gleaming having spent a night pampered and nearly suffocated with love and affection, the childless couple doting on their every whim no matter how fickle it seemed. They asked for none of it but received it nonetheless, basking in the attention they received, the warm baths that were run for them, the machine dried clothes that didn't stink of Laundromat soap, even things as simple as a slice of buttered toast wrapped in a napkin for their journey out, a juice carton or two tucked down the side of the seats or a packet of mints carefully hidden away for them to search for whenever the journey became too tiresome.

They were such good people – too good for the likes of her and her family.

But Brookfield was on the horizon, the two of them screaming internally as the name first appeared on the road sign fifty or so miles back. And now Rebekah and Meredith could see buildings on the not too distant distance, hope and excitement beginning to curdle the very pits of the hunter's stomach as she turned her truck onto West Helm Street, the first farm and outlet buildings passing them by as blurs of brown and grey.

"We're almost there Mer."

"Are your cousins gonna' be there?"

"All five of them – yeah. And," she sighed, resting her head against the cool glass of the window, "you'll be stayin' far away from at least one of them."

"What d'you me-"

"I love my family more than anythin' Mer you know that – but Shane has a habit of takin' to pretty little things like you and well-" She smiled slightly as she spotted her friend hiding the blush that painted her porcelain cheeks petal pink, Meredith turning her head away from view though Beck could still catch a glimpse of her in the reflection of the window, her lips pressed together in a thin line to try and stop herself from beaming. "Well – we'll see."

"I'll behave," she heard her say, a finger twirling a stray stand of her hair.

"It's not you I'm worried about," the hunter snorted, snapping herself a cube of chocolate from the bar at her side and popping it on her tongue. "It's-"

Her immediate thoughts rested on her cousin, the likes of whom would take to Meredith's innocent charm like a house on the fire. However, the more she thought the darker her mind's suggestions became, and all too soon the darker dregs of her world were seducing her little bird, breaking her wings, snapping her neck. Rebekah shook her head, neck still aching from the accident the other day. All of a sudden, she was back to thinking of wrapping her in bubble wrap – miles of the stuff.

"What happened the other day?"

Two cubes of chocolate. "What?"

Meredith shot her an accusing glance, book open on her knees, fingers mindlessly plucking at a dog eared corner.

"You know what I'm talkin' about Nebraska."

She sighed, "I know."

"And-"

"I don't wanna' talk about it."

She didn't keep much from Mer and usually, if she didn't tell her verbally, the girl would figure it out by herself. They talked about death as though it was the weather, sex as if it was a television programme and family like a family member – but Beck knew there were some things Meredith Parkes could not understand, not with all the knowledge she possessed inside her pretty little head, her own brothers sweeping the memory under the carpet, especially after Joe died. The youngest Aston had decided a long time ago never to talk or even think about that night all those years ago, and it was established a little more recently that Meredith would never know, never get told, never even be allowed to look into it for fear of what she might find.

In the end though, Rebekah simply said "it's a Sight thing."

That didn't sate the girl's appetite but it ended the topic, exactly what the young hunter hoped would happen. She was too tried to explain the complexities of her family's life, tribulations that barely made any sense to herself let alone an outsider, someone who hadn't been there all those times their luck had swan-dived into a cesspit of shit, someone who couldn't even begin to comprehend all of the things they had seen and, even worse, the things they had done just to get by in the business.

"You liked him – didn't you?"

Despite her mood, the hunter smiled. "Didn't you?"

"That wasn't the question."

Rebekah smiled, swallowing the sweet thickness in her mouth, feeling it slide warmly down her throat.

"Oh Mer – what would I do without you?"

It was only later that night, as she lay in bed, that she came to realise Meredith had never specified which – yet she'd answered all the same. That really did give her something to think about.

(*)

_Route 29, Beaver Lake, Missouri. 11.37 a.m._

_Tuesday 23__rd__ September 2008. _

The whole situation bothered Dean more than it should have – he knew that. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the feeling that something was wrong, that there was something he was missing or had looked over or had let slide. It was driving him crazy. He picked irritably at his top lip, other hand resting lightly on the wheel of the car as they sped up the interstate faster than he probably should have been driving though the idea of being caught by the police didn't bother him anywhere near as much as the events of the last few days. It was random yes – bumping into a couple of hunters in the middle of a job. The chances were just – it just didn't happen, especially when there wasn't anything in the area that even hinted of a possible hunt, especially a demon. And then there was that, the demon, the demon Sam had sworn he'd exorcized but the girl who'd actually been there said didn't exist. But then was it too random to simply be a coincidence? Everything was so beautifully set up like a set of dominoes, one toppling to set off a chain of events that resulted in one big hunter versus scumbag smack down, forcing the two parties together, Winchester saving Aston, Winchester saving Parkes – the two girls being some of the biggest names in their field in their area. Was that too perfect to be random? Was it all – oh it was doing his fucking head in.

His eyes glanced over to the sleeping form of his brother, the idiot snatching more rest than he'd had in the past few nights but still managed to find it in him to sleep away another few hours whilst he drove, alone with his thoughts, alone arguing with himself over and over again because his fucking mind and his freaking brain couldn't seem to draw a sane conclusion out of it all. You know who could have figured it all out – that bloody calculator with wings Castiel. That trench-coated douchebag was about as logical as they came, he'd have an answer for him in seconds, though he'd decided at around four o'clock that morning that he'd rather take another stint in hell than ask that little duckling for help with his problems. Dean took a swig of cola from the can between his legs, shoving a chip or two down with it. The whole situation was fucking ridiculous and didn't bare thinking about, but it didn't stop it playing on his mind.

"Sammy," he muttered, flicking a chip at his brother's head. "Sam – wake up. I need to talk you."

"What Dean – what do you want," his brother growled, sound muffled by the seatbelt.

"I wanna' know what happened the other night."

Sam rolled his head onto his shoulder, regarding his brother through half-closed eyes. He seemed serious and, Dean being Dean, he didn't wear that expression very often. The younger of the two yawned, stretching out his limbs as best he could, one hand reaching beneath his collar to massage out the crick in his neck.

"What d'you wanna' know?"

His brow furrowed, "what happened – the other night?"

"I guess you're referring to the night before?" he sighed, leaning back in his seat, taking down a mouthful of water.

"I am."

Sam shrugged, "like I told you yesterday. There was a demon, she drew a demon trap and it got stuck and I ganked the thing with the knife… why?"

There he went again, same old story, no plot holes, no changes, the same thing he'd told him twice already. Dean pursed his lips and kept his eyes on the road, mile after mile devoured by his baby's wheels, observing his little brother out of the corner of his eye. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, still questioning the situation over and over again. His mind was running wild with him, so much so he'd even consulted Bobby – though the old geezer had simply called him an irrational old biddy and told him to have a drink or two to calm down. But he was not calm – he was so far from calm.

"It's funny," he sniffed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, "well it's not really – it's actually nowhere near fucking funny."

"Dean? What-"

"She said there was no demon Sam. Nothing – nada – zilch. Said you were mistaken. Do you know what that's doing to me?"

"Dean-"

"And you know somethin'? I'm inclined to believe the crazy bitch – and that's really fucked up Sam – like seriously. That I'd take her word over yours. Because I would – I mean I am."

He wasn't looking at him –refusing to. Sam pressed his lips together to stop himself from shouting, trying his best to keep his cool, though he could feel something bubbling up inside of him that was out of his control, something feral and beyond him. He thought through his words carefully, organising his thoughts, letting himself cool off a little before responding to his brother's accusations, making a conscious decision not to let the older hunter have any idea how much those allegations actually hurt him.

"There _was_ a demon Dean – why would I lie?"

Dean smashed the heels of his palms against the wheel, "I don't know Sam! Don't you think if I knew that-"

"Then what's the fucking problem Dean!"

"The problem is I can't trust you anymore Sammy – I can't trust anything anymore!"

He could barely contain himself, felt it bubbling up inside like sickness. He felt the need to hit something, to gank something, to destroy something – someone – anything just to get rid of all the pent up whatever he had rattling inside his gut. It didn't seem to want to go, it never went away, just manifested until he couldn't take it anymore- had to feed – had to see Ruby, have sex, feed more, kill something.

"Pull over," he managed, so low he began to wonder if his brother had even heard him.

"What?" he spat incredulously, car swerving slightly in the road.

"I said fucking pull over Dean."

He needed to get out. The Impala had always been such a safe haven throughout his early years, even now when the world outside seemed too big and far too much for him to handle, the doors, the leather seats, the shiny black paint seeming to be the only things that could protect him from everything – even himself. But it was a cage now, and Sam couldn't take it – needed out – needed to breathe. The Impala hurtled into the gravel at the side of the interstate, the cars behind them whining pitifully as they passed them, stones pinging off the paintwork – something Sam knew Dean would make him pay for later. That didn't matter though – the only thing that mattered was getting out.

The ground was firm beneath his feet; the sound the door made as it slammed shut even making him wince despite his mood. He heard the other door open but kept walking, immersing himself in knee-high grasses and grains as he took his chance to escape, to breathe, to rid himself of the soul-crushing feeling of hate he had coagulating in his chest and veins, an anger that set his blood on fire. He wanted to feel small and open and insignificant and he did, an ant beneath the mass of the blue sky that yawned above his head, engulfing them both, two brothers in the middle of the pettiest of arguments but an argument that meant the world to them nonetheless.

"Sam! Sammy – get back to the car – stop being so fucking-"

"Fucking what Dean?" he shouted, turning on his heel to face his older brother. "Fucking what? Hurt? I'm your brother-"

"Don't you think I know that you freakin' moron? Don't you think this hurts me more knowing that you're lyi-"

"I'm not lying to you Dean!" he barked, throwing his arms in the air as if to emphasise the point, "you're supposed to take my word – that's what brothers do!"

They took a step towards each other, Dean's hands itching to gather themselves in his brother's shirt to shake some sense into him. They twitched at his sides instead, every instinct telling him to go for his gun, the pathetic excuse for an organ in his chest the only thing reminding him that the irrational, lying son of a bitch in front of him was his brother. He hated looking up to him, hated that Sam could look down his nose at him. But, even with the height difference, deep down the eldest still knew who held the authority. He shoved Sam back, forcing him to stumble on his feet, the older of the two basking in the glory of his blatant dominance.

"What brothers do – brothers don't keep secrets – they don't skulk around the pissing dark fucking about with demonic sluts and going dark-side Sam! That's not what we're about – that's not how dad raised us – that's not what he fucking _died_ for!"

The look on his brother's face put a pressure on his chest that was incomprehensible, a weight that nearly had him gasping for breath. He looked shocked, more vulnerable than he'd seen him since – well since that son of a bitch had slammed a knife in his back all that time ago, back when he'd sold his soul for the man standing awkwardly in front of him, the stranger he called blood.

"Dean-"

He was already stalking his way back to his baby, back to his sanctuary. He didn't care how long Sam sat outside, how long it'd take for him to cool off, for him to deafen and paralyze himself with his dad's music until all sense of feeling subsided. Only when he was numb enough to drive without distraction would they leave for Bobby's, music still blaring over the stereo making no room for conversation. He was one hundred per cent done with the whole situation as he slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, leaving Sam standing alone in the midst of the corn and the grass, tears in his eyes, tears stinging his own though he wiped what little there was away as soon as he could with the sleeve of his jacket.

He was getting too old for this shit.

( )

_Route 36, Brookfield, Missouri. 10.23 a.m._

_Tuesday 23__rd__ September 2008. _

She was asleep again, the gentle rise and fall of her chest in beat with the mist of her breath against the window pane, Axel curled in her lap, head on paws, small bubble of snot appearing from his left nostril every now and again, whenever he exhaled particularly deeply. Meredith looked serene in her sleep, porcelain cheeks slightly pink as though touched by petals, painted lips puckered and slightly parted. Rebekah envied her brand of beauty, a softness that had all but vanished from her sun-bleached body, a body hardened and worn ragged from years of riding horses and herding cattle in between hunting, both occupations which somehow managed to leave their mark in different ways, scars caused by farming equipment frighteningly discernible from the precision cuts and bullet holes from hunts and enemies past. Rebekah, driving once again with her knees, leant carefully over, delicately shifting a strand of hair that had taken residence against Mer's nose, making her twitch like a rabbit. She was precious, a gem, something that hadn't yet been damaged by the life she led even despite the various cuts and bruises she wore clearly against her skin. She'd rather die than have her sucked into her world, rather die than have her damaged to an extent where there would be no turning back.

Beck settled herself back in her seat, Alistair's head against her thigh, eyes fluttering beneath his lids, mere slits of hazel in amongst the caramels of his fur. She scratched him absentmindedly between his ears, the shudder his body made at her touch a sign that he both acknowledged and accepted it. She knew there was no going back once it had you, no returning to your old life or whatever it was you considered 'normal'. Once you knew the truth about life there was no way of unseeing it, no way you could ignore the signs you'd had trained in to you, no way of dampening down the instinct that forever bubbled inside your gut. It wasn't just something you could switch on and off at your leisure, it was something you had to dedicate your life to, no matter how involuntarily that dedication turns out to be. And then you live on with the knowledge that you'll someday die bloody, taken out by the things you spent your life destroying, another line in the hunter's books of comrades fallen in action.

As Rebekah turned into Jewel Drive and up onto the road that'd take them past the lakes and towards her cousin's ranch she glanced yet again at her sleeping companion, her fringe and eyelashes fluttering in the breeze that had somehow managed to force its way through a tiny slit in the window, pastel pink eye shadow tainting her lids. Did she know there was no going back? Did she even think about that? Beck shook her head, riding out the small potholes in Julian Drive as they made their way up the winding lane. She highly doubted it – knowing full well that choosing her life wasn't actually a conscious decision. You were either forced into it like her brothers or born into it like she'd been, the latter forever being known as the child of catastrophe, the child that'd be born out of and into a broken family tainted by spilt blood and tragedy – the sort of thing that would allow the former to occur. Meredith was just another pawn caught up in the great scheme of things, playing a tiny role just like she was, a dust pan and brush turning up willingly to a scene of an earthquake, doing what they could before moving on to the next calamity.

The previous days' events played on her mind, the girl's sense of focus not on the blur of the blue waters as they sped by City Lake but on the dark tendrils of doubt that clouded the very edges of her mind. Alistair had long ago opened his eyes, his attentions drifting from her to elsewhere, the thoughts of a creature that had seen as much as her if not more. He didn't have an age to his name like she did, her twenty five years baring no comparison to the however many seasons he himself had survived through, living far longer than any dog should, far longer than a lot of people she had known. And he knew why she'd slammed on the brakes; been there at the time, lived it, breathed the moment that had scarred her mind and body more than all the hunts she'd hunted combined. But they'd come out of it in one piece, at least from the outside. And they were still there, still kicking.

Beck sighed and, driving once more with her knees, broke the last line of chocolate in the bar into four, three for herself, one cube settling itself on the great shaggy thing's tongue as he took it down in one. She knew she shouldn't do it but he never seemed to mind and he was still alive so – well she took that as confirmation that Alistair was just an anomaly and could actually handle the damning effects of chocolate. That seemed to sate him, his muzzle once again coming to rest in her thigh, pink tongue lapping once at the tattoo at her hip before he settled back into his semi-conscious state, always aware, always alert – a dog on standby.

Her mind wandered, the glare of the sun off the waters of the lakes forcing her to squint, the hunter resorting to pulling down the sun-shield from the roof, a packet of mints bouncing off Ali's head only to fall into her lap, a small smile playing on her lips as she carefully placed them on the dashboard. She had a lot to think about, a lot of thoughts her mind had stashed away to make room for the peace and tranquillity she'd had forced onto herself by her family's friends. Now that that had faded, they seemed to be in the process of rearing their ugly heads from the depths of her mind, places she'd refused to access when curled up in the guest room in Saint Joseph.

"_You're late."_

Late for what exactly? Rebekah sucked thoughtfully on one of the mints, passing another to the dog at her side and another to the sleepy boxer in Mer's lap, one hand on the wheel, another combing its way through her hair. She knew what it was, had her suspicions. But they were ludicrous, far too farfetched to hold a speck of truth. But she remembered well the black feathers that had cluttered her brain upon awakening, could still hear the flutter and flap of wings. It was the only conclusion she could draw from what she had Seen, and if it hadn't been at that level of importance it would not have come to her. But thankfully, somewhere in the course of that day or the one previous, she'd made the decision that she would meet with the Angel that had come to her in her dreams, and so the wave of reminders that washed over her sun-warmed body as she turned the final corner onto her cousin's drive did not come as a shock, the feelings that only ever came when she recalled upon a Vision. In her mental diary she put a cross over the 3rd of October, booked in her meeting, the time and the place, gooseflesh rising on her bare arms at the thought of such an encounter. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing that she'd ever come across but – well it would make the top five.

There were a million other things on her schedule; the identity of the two boys that had saved their lives, the demon that hadn't been a demon, the aftershocks she knew would arise from the Sight that had caused the crash. But it was not the right time, and so these thoughts turned to the depths of her mind unrequited, skulking back into their holes as they waited in a buzzing trepidation to be remembered, though the hunter did not know or cared even less when that'd be. Such dark things were quickly banished by the golden gleam of the ranch's gates as she pulled up into the drive, the lodge just about visible amongst the thick trees that hugged the edges of the lake, wood smoke thick on the air as the youngest Aston rolled down her window.

"Aston Lodge-"

"Lil? Lil is that you?"

The intercom buzzed ferociously as a multitude of bodies crashed somewhere in the background, Beck wincing at the sound of furniture being overturned, swear words and curses exchanged as people tried to right themselves using human bodies as support.

"Beck?"

"You gonna' let me in or am I gonna' have to sit 'ere all day on your lovely drive?"

There was a click of a button as the gates spread their welcoming arms, Beck revving the truck and beeping the horn long and loud, both Axel and Meredith coming awake with a jolt, faces startled, eyes wide with fear and from awe as they passed beneath the gleaming golden arches, intricate metal making way for the soft and gentle curvature of the trees they passed beneath, bodies bent inwards to create an almost living tunnel, the canopy of which shivered green above their heads, dappling their bodies in light and in shadow. Dogs ran themselves ragged either side of the truck, tongues and saliva streaming behind them as they galloped to keep up with them, Axel's face already smushed up against the window in greeting to the friends and family he hadn't seen since his birth. Only when their wheeled home came to a standstill did Beck wind down the window enough for the little boxer to jump out, his lanky body engulfed by gargantuan creatures of all colours and breeds, the animal disappearing from view for far longer than his master was comfortable with.

She only smiled, shouldering one of her bags as she kicked open her door and slid out onto the gravel, Alistair at her side, Meredith mirroring her and doing the same, her neck aching as she attempted to take everything in all at once. Great wooden beams met jovially with massive expanses of brick and stone, great arches of grey rock rising into the sky, belching out smoke that smelt more like home than anything Beck had ever experienced in her life, walls made of pure glass reflecting their faces, mouths wide, bodies slack as they basked in the warmth and the glory of the great structure. Beck turned her head, catching her companion's eye, a most sincere smile sitting proudly atop her lips.

"Welcome Mer."

"Yeah – Beck – I think we're here."

Rebekah sprinted into the arms of her family as they engulfed her, tears stinging her eyes as faces, both old and new, blurred into her line of sight as she was crushed between a mass of bodies, lips kissing her, arms embracing her, hands patting her and ruffling her hair. All around her there was noise and life, smells so familiar they hurt, sounds she hadn't heard since her childhood. The things that had haunted her before were long gone, replaced with a single thought that rang in her head as clear and as loud as the toll of a bell.

_I'm home._


	8. Chapter Seven: Curtain Call Princess

**Author's Note:**

**Rebekah**

_Recommended Playlist:_

_Of Monsters and Men – Sloom_

_Oceanlab – On a Good Day_

_Deaf Havana – Friends Like These_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

_Aston Lodge, Brookfield, Missouri. 11.58 a.m._

_Tuesday 23__rd__ September 2008. _

The lodge contained more bathrooms and closets than her own semi-modest ranch had rooms. Once the floor plan of the labyrinth of wood and stone had been mapped all was well for the little hunter, though upon first arrival she had lost her way almost immediately, winding up in the 'East Wing', completely unaware of its existence until she'd stumbled upon it, room after room of shelves of books and of knick-knacks, glass cases containing ancient scriptures and even older mementos of hunts and travels past. But she hadn't been the first to discover the mysterious East Wing, and it hadn't taken Rebekah too long to uncover her companion curled up on one of the many window seats, head in a book, murmuring words of languages long forgotten as she bathed herself in fresh and yet unabsorbed knowledge. And she'd left her there, undisturbed, choosing instead to find her way back along the trail of breadcrumbs she'd left behind her.

Rebekah and Meredith were not social creatures, a widely known fact long ago learnt by her family and friends. They were therefore housed in the very rafters of the West Wing, an attic-like floor space that had only recently been divided into a small semi-apartment, a shared bathroom, three bedroom area only accessible by a tight spiral staircase, wooden slats and gaps the size of the hunter's fist giving her a heart attack when she'd first found herself up against them, the girl having to haul up her bags as best she could whilst trying her hardest not to trip over any of the dogs that continued to swarm around her feet. They'd been set away from the pack, the other cousins and hunters taking refuge and solace in the communal warmth of the main house, the 'new arrivals' picking both the short and the highly suitable straw in terms of accommodation.

And there'd been so many names to learn her head was already swimming, the complex mass of faces that had greeted them with a wall of warm welcome almost drowning her in a sea of bonds yet to be formed and identities yet to discover. For that was how she'd been raised, caught in the midst of two brothers who trusted no one but their own kin, flesh and blood not ending in that that ran in their veins but through the earning of trust. They had family in the farthest reaches of their world, both biological and non-blood, but such ties had taken years to form and did not just happen at the flick of a switch. Beck new she had a job on her hands, learning the names and matching them to the faces of the three strangers she knew were lurking beneath the same roof that sheltered her own head. She didn't mean to be suspicious – you just had to be.

Rebekah dumped her bags on her bed, stretching her arms out above her head, feeling her joints crack. Axel had already buried himself under her pillows, slightly dusty paws marking the silken sheets. They'd put their stamp on the place like they always did, Axel leaving paw prints here there and everywhere, Sky moulting in a particular corner somewhere (and only that corner – the warmest where the pipes would run under the floorboards to ease her bones), Alistair finding a very particular piece of furniture on which he'd sharpen his teeth. And it'd always been that way – how it would always be. And she was just as guilty, often wondering how many hairbrushes she'd left here or there, always seeming to need a new one whenever they moved on because she always left the bloody things next to the sink. And she knew they'd put a mark on her cousins' place too, maybe carve her initials into the bare rafters that cut up the white ceiling, a moment or two captured in a photo and hidden away in a family album to replace the ones of her with braces. That way – she'd have something to come back to next time.

"Are you settled in?"

Alistair growled, Beck almost jumping out of her skin. She turned quickly on her heels, wincing a little as all manner of old injuries groaned in futile protest, feeling a little foolish all flushed and panicked beneath the gaze of the not so-stranger standing at the door.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes," the hunter smiled, her body relaxing, a breath escaping her. "It's been-"

"A long time. Come here Princess," she laughed, arms outstretched, pulling her into a warm embrace.

Jo Harvelle always felt and smelt the same – always had. The Roadhouse had been her second home in the old days when Joe and Jake hadn't got the man hours between them to babysit, sending her down the road (or two) to Ellen, knowing full well nothing could harm her there without getting harmed first. And Jo was like the sister she'd never had but had always wished God for, someone who'd plaited her hair without pulling the roots from her scalp because her brothers were both useless at those sorts of things. She was the friend before Meredith, the only other female in her life that had understood her situation (save Ellen). And she did smell and feel the same, like sandalwood and honey and warmth, not floral and soft like Meredith, but still good all the same.

And, just like the good old days, as they pulled away from each other they found their hair tangled, gold strands wrapped around a chocolaty-auburn, the two young women spending a spare moment unravelling the knots, smiles still permanently painted in their eyes and on their lips, flushing their cheeks pink. There were two types of people in Rebekah's world, those like Meredith and those like Jo. And Beck loved and appreciated the both of them in their own way, Meredith her friend, her companion, her walking book; and Jo, the woman she didn't have to worry about, the one she could turn her back on and not have to fear for her safety, her sister. Brown eyes met blue, Beck punching her ever so softly in the shoulder, Jo nudging her backwards with the palm of her hand as they laughed, Axel dragging himself from beneath the copious amount of cushions on her bed to treat the angel-haired hunter to a complimentary kiss against her bare knees.

"He's new," she grinned, ruffling him between his ears.

"Yeah," Rebekah sighed, hooking the boxer round his stomach, tucking him beneath her arm, "he's young but you should see'im chase down a SkinWalker – I've never seen anythin' like it."

Alistair scoffed, the great thing disappearing beneath her bed in a mound of fur and scratching paws, the hunter frowning as she set the little creature down against the laminate, allowing him to follow his elder beneath the furniture and knowing full well she wouldn't be seeing him for a long while.

"How are you anyway – are you all set up?"

Jo shrugged, "I am. I got here yesterday, arrived with Tamara-"

"Who?"

"The woman – dark skin, short black hair, not much good at conversation-"

Rebekah recalled the frosty reception she'd received and nodded, "I remember."

"Anyway," she muttered, fingers gently prodding a bruise on the hunter's shoulder, "wanna' fill me in?"

They talked for quite some time, Meredith never making an appearance, Rebekah long ago sacrificing her to the East Wing, knowing she'd leave when she was good and ready. With no one to distract them the two hunters talked animatedly for more hours than they could count, the morning unfolding into afternoon, both blonde and brunette lying back against the bed, hair splayed out as they stared up at the ceiling, Rebekah's feet flat against the wall above her headboard, Jo's legs hanging off the end of the bed. Joanna revealed unto her sister the most recent past events of her life, her leaving the Roadhouse, leaving Ellen, following in her daddy's footsteps like the good little soldier she was. How she'd been practicing hard and how much she missed her mom, a tear being shed here and there though she'd quickly wipe them away, Beck pretending never to have seen them through a mutual courtesy they shared. In return she shared with her her current predicament, that her brother hadn't known where she was, that she'd left without telling him, how much she missed Jake – how much she missed Joe (how it hurt). She talked about her crash, held her arms up to the sky as she ran her fingers across her scars and fresh cuts, letting her fingers fall against her face where old injuries still fought to heal, explaining each one, showing her the bruising against her ribs, bones straining against mottled skin. It was only when she came to more recent events that her friend's face changed almost entirely, looks of awe and of concern falling to expressions of acknowledgment and wonder, even anger (though this was well hidden).

"-so when we woke up we packed immediately. And then he was there and my God Jo he had to be the tallest creature I have ever seen! All long limbed like a deer and I swear I could have – well I thought it'd all been my own mind ya'know? But it hadn't been and there he was, and there was another one outside and – it was just madness. I don't even believe it now if I'm honest," the hunter shrugged against the sheets, folding her arm under her head as she rolled on her side to face her, "Sam and Dean. I don't even know-"

"Winchester," Jo muttered, eyes trained on the dream catcher gently swaying above their heads.

Beck propped herself up on an elbow, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. "What?"

Jo's gaze flicked to her, "Was one like – did he look cut out of a men's magazine or something?" Beck nodded. "And the long one – mess o'hair and the face of a little angel?"

"How did you-"

"Their daddy got my daddy killed," she said matter-of-factly, train of sight returning to the fluttering feathers hanging from the rafters.

"They – they saved my life Jo."

"Yeah," she muttered, rolling onto her side, concentration now broken. "They do that."

When Jo had eventually been called away by one of her many cousins Rebekah was left alone against the white sheets of the bed, her head surrounded in a halo of paw shaped prints, Axel curled up beneath her arm, Sky's head against her right thigh and Alistair's against her left. She wrapped and unwrapped a single golden strand of Harvelle hair around her index finger, winding it and unwinding it so many times she lost count. Jo was filled with so much – stuff, Beck couldn't even begin to unravel it. It exhausted her to even think about the complex web of weight that dragged her down. Family issues seemed to come all part and parcel with the job, though she couldn't even comprehend something so bad she'd walk out on Jake or vice versa. Ellen was everything she'd ever wanted in a mother figure, knowing her own mother Bethany wouldn't have been much different if she was still with her, so the idea that Ellen had done something so wrong to force Jo away from her – well it confounded her quite simple and tired mind. And worst of all, Jo had changed. Something, something incredibly recent, had turned her that little bit colder – cold like her. It was always something that she'd hoped would never happen, though she had to admit from the sounds of things the fresh little hunter had gotten her roots into the business – it was bound to happen. But she'd always held out hope that Ellen could save her from herself, though it seemed that if the Winchester's had anything to do with anything things tended to go downhill. And now Jo was almost as cold and as blatant as she was, and that somehow managed to turn her stomach enough she had to nap it off.

Though, as Rebekah ventured downstairs, it seemed as though the Harvelle's mood had improved considerably. It appeared as though Jo had taken to Meredith like a house on fire (an irony Beck didn't like thinking about). The youngest Aston had had to halt at the door, battered body resting against the archway, almost unable to stop herself from beaming at such and unfamiliar sight. Meredith sat at the kitchen counter with Jo at her side, the hunter looking remarkably older and worldlier than the little sparrow that sat perched on her stool, pouring over the arsenal of weapons Jo had laid out for her on the black marble. Mer's fingers hesitantly brushed the cold metal of her knife engraved with Harvelle initials, her teeth softly nipping at her lower lip as her nails came into contact with the sentimental carving. All around her family life had splayed itself like an open and warm embrace, dogs and humans alike lounging in various and often unlikely places, Shane (for instance) taking refuge in the corner of the kitchen, back against the oven, right leg hanging off the counter, a mutilated apple in one hand and a knife in his right.

Beck took her secondary step into normality, only just having recovered from the sentimental attack she'd received that very morning upon arrival. Without a word to Shane she helped herself to the cupboard beside his head, pulling out a packet of chips and a jar of dip from off one of the shelves before setting it on the side, sliding in her socks across the tiles to the fridge to get a sip of water. She felt the heat of his body against her back before she sensed anything else; never having heard him set down his things or drop down to the floor. She dropped her gaze with a carefully concealed smile and spotted his toes mere centimetres away from the backs of her heels. All it'd take would be one shot, one direct connection of elbow to stomach and she could floor him in one-

He already had her mapped before she could even take a second breath. How she ended up looking at the ceiling was so far beyond her it made her head spin, though she was very much poleaxed as her vision became clouded by his grinning face, short blonde hair flopping over his eyes as he stood over her, hands on his knees, expression one of sheer pride at the feat he'd just performed and embarrassment on her behalf. How the hell had he even done that? She hadn't even felt him touch her.

"Watch yourself country-girl," he laughed, pulling her up into him, strong arms wrapping round her like a vice. "You smell like shitty truck fumes. What the hell's wrong with you-" he muttered releasing her, the older hunter returning to his apple. "We've got unlimited funds Beck, don't you think it's time-"

"Not a chance in hell," she gasped, leaning back against the counter when he finally let her go, hand burying itself inside the packet of crisps. "Don't go hatin' on the truck. You know Joe would never have her retired."

"She'll retire herself if you're not careful," he smiled, taking a sip from her drink. _"_I just want what's best for y-"

"Bullshit," she muttered with a grin, flicking a chip or two in his direction, "you're just gonna' be embarrassed to be seen with me is all – when we're out and about and you're in your _totally conspicuous _waste of money and I'm in my trusted – what do you call it?"

"Rusted shit-bucket."

"Yeah – that."

He raised a glass to her, "Well congrats Sherlock – you got me."

The Aston-Bradleys were almost doppelgangers of her side of the clan, though Shane had somehow managed to inherit some blonde from somewhere down the line. Siv and Shane had been in her life ever since she'd said her first word, hunting with her as soon as she'd been able to fire her first shot. The only differentiation Rebekah could make between the two sets of brothers (save appearance) was in terms of personality, the Aston-Bradleys being entirely forwards instead of the Aston's complete backwards sense of organisational responsibility, the eldest Siv being the mature and responsible one and not the reckless flake-out her eldest had been, Joe sharing more of Shane's womanising, free-roaming personality compared to Tom and Jake who were like two pees in a reliable pod.

"Have you met Mer yet?" she asked coolly, regarding him carefully out of the corner of her eye.

"I have…"

"And?"

"Not my type."

Rebekah let out the breath she'd been holding. "Thank fuck for that," she mumbled through a mouthful of damp potato.

"The blonde however-" he smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope. Nope!" She laughed, thrusting the half empty bag of crisps into his hands, "Don't you dare. Off limits! I'm puttin' my foot down."

"Oh Yeah? We'll see about that," he grinned.

She was upside down before she could even say another word, Meredith and Jo now laughing at her from the roof. Her hair hung loose over her face, dragging across the floor as she kicked and squealed in her cousin's arms, his grip around her thighs so strong her toes were starting to tingle. She battered his shins with her fists, screamed and cursed his name until she was both blue and red in the face. Her head felt unbelievably dizzy, so heavy in comparison to the rest of her body she doubted she'd ever be able to walk again if she was to be put upright. Her cousin didn't seem to have any of these immediate plans in mind however, and the young hunter was half carried, half dragged throughout the kitchen and living room, every single dog inhabiting the main floor of the house seeming to congregate on their ungainly procession to share in her misery, her face shimmering with saliva after a few minutes of 'kisses'. After a while she gave up smacking and swiping at him, her arms trailing limply along the tiles and the laminate as they passed from room to room, her original shouts of protest turning into mutterings and grumbles of long strings of swear words.

"How are you gonna' put your foot down when-"

"Oh shut up Shane!" she muttered, arms now crossed, her head feeling as though it was going to implode.

He dumped her in a groaning heap onto one of the sofas, her head landing awkwardly in the lap of a stranger though she was far too dizzy and near passing-out to care. He seemed uncomfortable beneath her though and the poor hunter had reason to be, her head lying against his crotch, her flushed face moaning and muttering in his lap. Shane dropped himself into one of the armchairs closest to the fire, arms crossed over his chest, nodding at anyone who dared give him a disapproving look.

"Are you quite done?"

"Quite."

"Good. Then shall we begin?"

It was the largest gathering of hunters (outside a bar) she'd seen in a long time. She had very little material to go on, but the moment she'd extricated herself from the poor gentleman's lap and got her head back together she quickly began to realise how big of a job it was actually going to be. Excluding Meredith there had to be ten of them, the two Aston-Bradleys, her cousins Lillian, Jennifer and Richard, the man she'd been dumped on, the one who seemed intent on discovering the bottom of the bottle of whiskey, Tamara, her and Jo. That, in hunting terms, was a serious job indeed. Her head was already swimming with pieces of information, memories recalled from hunts past, things she'd read in her brother's journals and diaries, things she'd picked up, things Jake had told her and so on and so on. She could barely hear her cousins speak over the incessant droning of memory, a sense enhanced by her intended dehydration, something that didn't know when to shut up at the worst of times but sometimes failed to kick in when needed.

"- what d'you think Beck?"

"Huh?"

"Leave her be Jen – she's havin' a hard time Seein' aren't you sweetie?"

"I just need – like one second. I haven't drunk anythin' in like-"

"Around thirty hours," Mer piped up from somewhere in the kitchen. "It's not long enough though – is it?"

"No it isn't," the hunter muttered, attention now drawn to her parched throat, "Thank you Meredith."

It was usually the case when she refused to drink, the purification process excellent for Recall but it thickened her up to the point where she thought she'd burst. Sight worked a little like custard; keep it wet and flowing and it works pretty well, leave it to stand and a skin begins to form. Recall, minus water, was the skin on the top of her custard, thickening with disuse, congealing into one mass of powerful memory until she'd barely be able to wade through it all. But that was what they needed, no matter how busy and crowded it got inside her head. The moment she began to drown in it all, that was when she'd be at her most useful.

The Astons and their guests talked well into the early hours of the morning, the great glass walls that boxed them in magnificent screens revealing the majesty of night as great swathes of stars stretched themselves out over the lake beyond their transparent confines. Every single minute detail was raked by a fine tooth comb, the more serious details being revised three or four times over until every last one of them could replay the plan backwards – even Meredith. The girl had begun the night insistent on tagging along and playing her part, but as hours passed and the darker details of the venture they were about to undertake came to light even she, as headstrong as she was, began to realise that she, more than any of them, wouldn't have a good chance of returning home in one piece (if at all). The bookworm resigned herself to map-work, head buried in faded papers and aged scrolls in a bid to get their movements exact as the big boys and girls talked of nastier things, things Rebekah didn't want her little sparrow to be a part of. She knew she was listening however, even as she tweaked charts and measured boundary lines. She was always listening – always learning.

It was only as morning's rays set alight their haggard faces that their meeting finally drew to some sense of conclusion. They'd long ago ran out of coffee and whisky, the vast underground pantries of the ranch barely able to support six hunter hours, their nourishment now coming from cups of watery tea and leftover chicken from the night before. The hunter who'd first cracked open the devil's drink, a man Rebekah now knew to be Sid, lay spread eagled against the rug in front of the guttering embers of the fire, a pen knife constantly flicking in and out of his fingers, his eyes neither here nor there as he muttered countless profanities in the general direction of the blood sucking bastards he so despised. Mer had long fallen asleep, head nestled in the crook of the young Harvelle's neck, Jo mindlessly plaiting strands of the girl's mousy hair as, for the final time, their bedraggled congregation walked through each individual step of the plan.

There was however, one thing missing. And that, as much as they all disliked it, would be left completely to chance. In showman's terms they all hoped it'd be alright on the night, and pray that the youngest Aston wouldn't give in to her demons and drink. For, without her Sight, they were blind fish in a barrel waiting to be shot. Gradually, as maps were rolled shut and scribbled notes locked away in their books their tired clan began to drift off to their allocated territories, the Aston-Bradley boys taking care of one girl each as they hoisted their sleeping forms on their backs, parting the girls for the first time that night as they returned them to their beds. In the end, Rebekah was left alone with Sid, his mumbling, drunken heap a mere shifting shadow in the dark. She sat perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped in her lap, her eyes closed against the deafening noise of her own thoughts as she tried to seek some sort of silent solace in a corner of her mind yet untouched by her rising madness. It'd be worth it in the end, she knew that. She'd done this a million times before and she'd do it a million times again in the future. All she had to do was grit her teeth through it. She had no choice.

Tomorrow was show time, and they'd all be screwed if she didn't make her curtain call.


	9. Chapter Eight The Opening Number

**Author Comment**

**Recommended Playlist:**

**My favourite chapter so far – possibly that I've ever written. I love action and this was bloody difficult to write given the number of people running around. I do love them all, rest in pieces. **

_**Within Temptation – The Howling. **_

_**Kasabian – Take Aim **_

_**Rage Against the Machine – Killing In The Name Of**_

**Chapter Eight**

_Side Road, Highway 11, Brookfield Reservoir 1.28 p.m._

_Thursday 25__th__ September 2008. _

It was their big opening number.

In her mind a map had opened up, a bird's eye view of their immediate area. All around her markers shifted impatiently in their positions, yellow for canine, red for human, blue for the impending storm that sat just on their not too distant horizon. She tracked behind closed eyes, head only just in the game as they began to move as soon as the clock struck half past, watching their movements through their eyes, Shane's surroundings filling her vision, from the discomfort of the passenger seat of her baby, she crunched through the undergrowth, machete in hand, monster of a canine at her side, her own Axel's wet nose resting against her knee from where he sat in the foot well. She'd told herself throughout the night that it'd all be worth it in the end, the biggest hunt of her life, the largest culling of her clan's career. They swarmed in the depths like hornets, feeding, slaughtering, breeding and changing until they had nearly twice their numbers, maybe even more. Their impending victory relied on her willpower, that of which she had very little. The drip of the tap in the kitchen had almost been her undoing, the smell of coffee and of hard liquor the night before almost tipping her over the edge. But she was still there, dry mouthed and muttering in her insanity, but she'd done it.

In the end, only nine had opted to hunt, Lillian remaining behind with Meredith to 'protect' the house. Lillian wasn't a hunter, she never had been. She was the youngest of her branch of the Aston line and, like Beck, had the gift that allowed her to See. But she didn't See memory or Recall like Rebekah did, nor did she have the aptitude for foresight that Beck was sometimes (rarely) granted with. Lil was blessed with a Sight that paid for their ventures, a power that gave them a far better standard of living than a lot of the men and women they called kin. But it distracted her, all those numbers constantly in her head, probabilities, outcomes, percentages – in the field she'd be a sitting duck if Sight took her, and that made her more of a liability than an asset. And everyone knew it but, in a bid to save face, no one said a thing. Lil would look after Mer and Mer Lil – that was all.

"Five minutes Beck – are you alright?"

"Fine," she muttered, ringing her hands in her lap. "Just fine. Test the radio."

They had more tech than they'd ever used before. The secondary branch of her clan seemed to have made a very recent 'investment', Rebekah able to tap into and flick through various webcams dotted throughout their hunting party, Shane being her most preferred recipient as he didn't seem to move his head as much as the others. The headpiece was uncomfortable, itched her scalp and made her ears ache where it held itself to her head. Every time she moved her world suddenly became out of kilter and, even with her eyes wide open, she was completely blind when out of sync with the signals of the other cameras. But, tapped in, she was everywhere, running with Shane and Ty, in the collar of Ester loping alongside Siv's lanky frame, even perched in a tree near the hot-spot. She'd never been more in tune, though her mind had to work overtime to compensate. After five minutes she found herself already exhausted, and she hadn't even moved. She had a grip on it all though, a handle on the situation for the time being. Things would get wild when shit would hit the fan, but for now – for now she had it in the bag.

"This is Shit-bucket. I repeat. This is Shit-bucket. Copy? Anyone Copy?

"Who the hell came up with that-" Sid muttered through the window, swiping his own headset from Jo's hand.

"Who'd you think," the young woman snorted, scraping her hair back into a loose ponytail. "This is a radio test-"

"I copy."

"Shane," Beck groaned, fingers massaging her temples, "stop spinnin' around for fucks sake. You're doin' my head in."

"Sorry," she heard him say, voice crackling over her headset. "We copy. I've got Siv and Ester in sight on my right, I caught wind of Sid a minute ago but I lost him. Richard can't be far off."

"Why'd that dog have to have the same pissin' name as me-"

"Shut up Sid," Jo muttered, tossing a small, DVD case sized device up to him. "Make yourself useful."

"What the fuck do you expect me to-"

"It's got the canines' positions marked on in yellow. Every yellow icon is one of their dogs."

"They've got trackers in their collars," Beck muttered, easing herself back into Shane's characteristic lope, wincing a little as a small branch whipped back and caught him on the back of his head.

They left Sid to it, the grizzled veteran muttering something or other about their overly technical bullshit hunting methods.

"Two minutes."

"Take roll call," Beck muttered, squeezing the remote in her hand, the hunter switching from a gallop through the undergrowth to a somewhat bird's eye view of the hot-spot.

"Shit-bucket to clan. Sound off."

"Shane and Tiberius copy."

"This is Richard and Ester – we copy."

"Jen and Elle call in – we've got Graham."

"Likewise. Siv and Ester with Tamara. Copy."

"All in guys – good luck."

The home base was plunged into silence, the only sounds coming from the dogs panting in the back, the sound of Rebekah's thumb clicking through her various connections or Sid's fingers tapping against the touch screen to get a clearer picture of their various whereabouts. Beck didn't need to see Jo to know what she was doing, able to feel the vibrations through her seat as the younger hunter fidgeted in her own, crossbow leaping up and down against her knee as she drummed a beat into the floor of the truck with the heel of her shoe. From somewhere in the back a dog yawned, a bird calling in the field outside their immediate world startling the girl next to her, even Axel at her feet. They were all teetering on a knife's edge, stressed beyond belief, acting otherwise or trying at least to cover it up. Sid had been begun humming something or other, though the melody never remained intact long enough for the girls to guess the song. Even their men in the field had gone quiet, headsets devoid of Graham's mutterings or Shane's dry jokes, all of them preparing themselves for what they had to come. The closer they came to the hot-spot the quieter their footsteps became, Rebekah reacting now only to the odd snap of a twig that emanated down her earpiece.

They had six hunters and four dogs in no man's land, two others as back-up and her. She wasn't useless, but she'd be out of action if they were ever called in. She was a pair of eyes to them and nothing more, seeing all, hearing all, absorbing all until she was fit to burst. Every movement was logged, every inch and pixel of scenery mapped into the steadily growing hive of information she had building in her reserves. It was her job; it was what she was good at. There was no room for distraction, no second for eating or toilet brakes and especially no time to quench her undying thirst. It was almost time.

"Pause."

Every single screen she now flicked through had halted, scenes of unwavering forest repeating itself one after another as she checked each webcam with a gentle compression of her thumb against the trigger, a little device now slick with her own sweat. Above her the tapping had stopped, Sid able to keep tabs on every single last one of them now that they'd stopped moving. Rebekah heard Jo adjust her headset, the hunter licking her lips damp as she flicked through the schedule, resetting the watch she'd been given to count up the minutes, every last detail meticulously planned down to the individual second. The plan was bulletproof. They'd made sure of it. They'd accounted for everything, every outcome, every possibility; every mistake had been revised and rectified before they'd even stepped out the front door. Equipment had been checked and rechecked, plans relayed forwards and backwards, times memorised, each and every member of the clan, even Meredith, able to tell one tree from another. They'd thought of everything – everything.

_They are waiting. The leaves shiver impatiently above their heads, twigs crunch underfoot. They amass like spirits in amongst the shadows of the trees. You can't tell one from another they are clad so dark. But it's daylight. They shouldn't be out in the daylight. One moves, alters her position, arm outstretched to pierce a beam of light that has managed to force its way through the canopy. It caresses her skin like a friend. They are no longer enemies of the light – they have embraced it._

Everything except that.

Sight released her almost as quickly as it had taken hold. She drank in air greedily, startling Jo at her side, the young hunter's hands cold against her bare arm as she choked back into some sense of life, Sid's belt buckle once more scraping across the metal of the roof as he leant down through the window to check what all the fuss was about. But she was still gone, still suffocated by the weight of her own Sight. It kept coming in waves, her vision faltering from still forest to shifting shadows, the oncoming storm far closer than any of them had ever imagined. She was frozen, her skin, her muscles, her bones – completely cold and set in place. She felt paralyzed inside her own body, unable to move, screaming from within her skin.

"They know we're coming," she spat, "Jo – they're out there. They're moving. Tell them! Pull them back! They're out in daylight."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Sid groaned, pulling himself back up onto the roof of the truck, cocking his rifle with a grunt. "It's gonna' get ugly ain't it sweetheart?"

It wasn't a question – not one that needed answering anyway.

"Jo!" Rebekah hissed, flicking back through her cameras, eyes searching the woods through her friends' eyes in an attempt to find something, anything – hoping with her whole heart and entire being that she'd find nothing.

"Mayday, Mayday! We have orders to pull back. I repeat pull back! Orders are from Eagle-Eye. I repeat Eagle-Eye. Pull back now."

Rebekah closed her eyes against the visor, allowing herself a mildly brief reprieve from the chaos that was currently ensuing across every single camera they had in action. Waves of curses and panicked mutters flooded her through the earpieces of her headset, most questions aimed at Jo who had neither the patience nor the knowledge to answer them. Their carefully laid plans had turned into chaos, the handle she'd had on the situation rapidly careering out of her reach. The panic rising in her gut was sickening, the blood pumping in her ears deafening, even more so than the barks of panicked canines or the screech of one of their men caught out in the field over the set. Their men were scattered, their weapons useless without a clear target. It was bedlam, pure anarchy. And they – they were the fish in a barrel waiting to get shot in their tin can.

"Oh fuck – fuck!" she muttered massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingers, eyes still closed against the imminent storm. "What do we do – what do we do – come on! What are we doing?"

"That's a real moral boost sweetheart," Sid grunted from somewhere above, firing a crack shot into the undergrowth. "Really – carry on – you're getting me all fired up."

Rebekah ignored him, fingers idly fiddling with Axel's ears. "What would they do – what would Jake and Joe do? Come on – you got this. Jake and Joe Beck – what would they do? You know this-"

"Do you want input or-"

"No just-"

She didn't have an answer. She didn't know what her brothers would have done. They would have gone in with more men, they wouldn't have gone in at all – they weren't her at the end of the day. She wasn't like them – she never had been. They were straightforward, logical thinking human beings, Joe probably taking more of a shot at it than Jake because he didn't calculate stats like her youngest brother; he just went on gut instinct and hoped to hell and heaven for the best. But that didn't help her situation. She was just a lost, pathetic, small little thing with no ideas. She lived off Joe's work like a parasite, always consulted his past works, had each and every hunt memorised until she could relay the information without the aid of photographs or written notes. If it didn't come up in the books then – well she didn't have a clue. She'd Seen for them, that had been her job. She'd done her job – not well it should be noted but she did it. But where had it got them? They were scattered like leaves in an updraft and completely disjointed to an almost pitiful level. They'd lost before they'd even started.

"Why are they out in the day?" Jo whispered, hysteria rising in the depths of her throat. "I don't understand-"

"They're old," Beck hissed, the pathway between Reality and Sight now somewhat blurred due to panic. "They can't be fucked with it anymore. It's like they've become immune."

"Helpful darlin' – really helpful. Now if you wouldn't mind-"

"Cram it Sid before I cram it for you," she snapped, hands caressing the trigger of her crossbow. "You're not helping!"

"All I'm sayin' is-"

"Just stop Sid!"

They were silent for a long time after that, none of them really making any attempt at small talk as the panic began to truly unfold. Sid had his job, long ago chucking the tech he'd had in his charge down through the sun roof and onto the back seat, resorting to a pair of binoculars and a shotgun he swore by. He'd crack a shot every now and again as a warning, sometimes a few at a time when things got really bad in the field and he felt like the BSBs (Blood Sucking Bastards) needed a distraction, opening up a chink in their defence for their men in the field to take. It wasn't as bad as she'd envisioned, mind running amuck with all possible horrendous outcomes, their soldiers taking orders from home base as though they were programmed to do so, still as smart, still as fleet of foot as they were before the whole plan went to shit – just that little bit more disorganised. Through her cameras Rebekah watched in silence as their teams fought as best they could, Richard severing the neck of one he held beneath his boot, closing her eyes only as his gargantuan animal Sid began working into its body. She could handle some things, clean cuts, quick ends, but animals tended to make a mess and she wasn't a fan of that. But, best of all – they were winning.

That was until they lost one of their own.

Hunters had a way of thinking, a mantra they lived by that only someone in their profession would be able to handle. When you walked out your front door, you knew there was a chance you weren't ever coming back. You'd walk around your home, touch things for what could be your last time, kiss someone, eat something, read a book – it was all the same. You never knew. But there would always be this cocky undercurrent that came from years in the field, this wavering assuredness that psyched you up, something that actually kept you going. Because they'd all lived this long, and it was always just another hunt. You knew it may be your last, but at the same time there was always the chance you'd live on to work your next job. So when they'd stepped out their front door that morning, they hadn't hugged and kissed and said their goodbyes – that wasn't their way. There'd be looks, some casual touches, Mer and Rebekah even taking a moment out to themselves, forehead to forehead, toe to toe, eyes closed against the big wide world in the hope Meredith wouldn't be returning to Sterling alone. And with that they'd left, the only words coming from Shane as he left them in their truck in no man's land, a deft 'see you on the other side' before he'd taken off into the brush with his brother and his companion in toe. Because they'd all expected to see each other again – at least they'd hoped they would.

Graham went down in their second hour, an unexpected causality of war. He was alone, Jennifer and her dog Elle off aiding Tamara with a veteran pair of BSBs. And he fell at what seemed to them to be one of their last hurdles, the clan having cut up and hacked away at more vamps then they could count, more than they had in their party. And Rebekah had watched in horrified silence as he'd fell, tripped by one and broken by another as they tag-teamed his sorry ass, webcam turning to static the moment his blood had begun to stain the lens. At that moment she'd ripped the tech from her head and thrown it to the ground, though not before she'd had Jo cut his signal. Because he'd screamed in a way she'd heard no man scream before – or at least in no way she allowed herself to remember. Their battered soldiers didn't need to hear that… she certainly hadn't. Sid had gone very quiet after that, forcing the girls to question the relationship between the two men. Rebekah would learn later that they'd been like brothers, and that Sid had drunken himself stone cold a month or so later.

Rebekah breathed heavily, drinking in more air from the crack in the window, passing a bottle of water up to the veteran hunter without a drop so much as passing her lips. Her Sight had gone quiet, but she still didn't trust it enough to sate her thirst. They were two and a half hours in. She felt them slowing, see them faltering, limbs numb with the weight of their weapons, bodies battered and broken from where they'd left themselves open to attack. But attacks came far less frequently, and if so they had more soldiers to jump in and join the fray, a spat more often than not ending up with a full on decapitation as they whittled down their numbers. They'd lost no one since Graham, but Shane had come close, had his cousin screaming down the mouthpiece at him to move, to duck, the biggest BSB she had ever seen flying over his head as he hit the ground, Ty turning on the great hulk of a thing as he set to work into its floundering body, the blonde haired hunter wiping the blood away from his mouth as he brought the machete down across its neck. Beck had turned off after that, flicked to a different station. She didn't like mess.

Jo followed their positions on her pad, doing the math, calculating their odds. She'd gotten smarter since the last time they'd met, and Rebekah was genuinely impressed when she'd taken a quick peak at the notes she'd made in the midst of one of her breathers. She didn't do maths – wasn't her strong suit, but Jo seemed to know what was going on, had it all figured out in her pretty little head. She knew their locations, had plotted the movements of the bloodsuckers across their field of battle. They came in waves of two and three and, by the looks of things; they didn't seem to have many left.

"We've got this," she muttered, tucking her hair behind her ear, genuinely beaming, "I think we've got this!"

They waited for Sid to make a comment, but he hadn't spoken for a very long time. They could hear him breathing; hear him humming to himself, both girls looking at each other rather sadly when he failed to make a snide remark.

"It's almost over," Beck breathed, flicking again through the cameras that still offered her a live feed.

"Speak for yourself," she heard Richard mutter over the headset, the sound of dogs barking in the background making the young hunters jump in their seats.

"They put up a good fight," Siv added, always the man with the compliment, no matter what _thing _it was directed at. "You have to admit-"

"Stop praising the fucking things," Shane growled, Beck having to flick to another camera as he made to skewer a limbless woman through her stomach, the Seer getting a full on view of the fear and shock on her face before she managed to blink out.

She hated it, hated the fact that they looked human. Without their teeth they were people, girls and boys and mothers and fathers and men and women who'd just somehow drawn the shit straw in life. They didn't choose to be that way, none of them sought out one of the BSBs to take a bite out of them to make them a monster. But here they were as a family, bonding over the mass culling of another clan that probably shared the same sort of bonds they did. But they were monsters all the same, human form or not… it still didn't mean she couldn't see that woman's face whenever she closed her eyes.

"How many more?" Jennifer asked, Tamara muttering something in her other ear.

"I'm not sure-"

"Reassuring."

"Three," Jo murmured, flicking through her notes. "I honestly think we have three-"

"Thank fuck for that," Shane sighed, Beck watching him wipe his face down with his shirt, lens momentarily blocked by stained plaid. "It's about bloody time."

Their men in the field seemed somewhat jubilant, blood-stained faces managing to crack a smile, battered bodies standing that little bit more upright at the news it was almost over. Even Tamara seemed pleased, Beck swearing she saw her smile even if just for a moment. Jo had told her that Tamara hadn't smiled since she'd lost her husband, something that had made the young hunter very sad indeed despite the fact she didn't know the woman at all personally. It had made her think for a long time about all sorts of things, made her take a trip down to the East Wing deprived of the company of her dogs, everyone accept Alistair who'd never once let her out of his sight after the crash. And she'd sat in one of the library rooms, the Alsatian's head in her lap, mindlessly stroking his nose as she settled herself into one of the window seats, a view that had her looking out over the shimmering waters of the lake just beyond the glass pane, wondering if her father would have smiled after her mama's death. She wondered if that was why he'd gone in after her; if, at that moment, he knew he'd never smile again if she'd died and left him behind living. Maybe flames were a more enticing proposition than the thought of a lifetime of indifference – but that was a very dark thought indeed, even for her.

Their collective high didn't last long however, their team at a loss as the final three failed to show. Sid let off another shot and a curse, fired another before sending the bottle of water back down onto the back seat, Jo taking a swig as she tried in vain to calculate the probable positions of the three she was sure still existed somewhere in their area. Rebekah observed her family regroup, Jennifer throwing an arm around Tamara, the older woman dabbing the sweat from her forehead with her shirt sleeve, Siv and Shane greeting each other with a high five and the tightest man-hug she'd ever seen, making her question how either of them could breathe. Richard was wary but still found the time to embrace his younger sister, so glad not to have lost another member of his family to the BSBs. It was his show after all, his plan in the first place. He just seemed glad no one else had died. Nevertheless, their clan did find a moment to gather in a respective silence the minute they realised Graham would not be making an appearance, Jo's hand coming to rest on Rebekah's knee, Sid halting his humming, Axel even quietening down when he caught on to the mood of things. The girls had forgotten that they'd cut the signal, realising only then how many of the men and women they'd observed all this time had been unaware of their fallen comrade. And that hurt – that hurt a lot.

"When did-"

"About a half hour ago."

"Was it-"

"Quick? Yeah."

"Did you see who-"

"It's dead. Jen killed it. You didn't know-"

"I didn't know," Jen muttered, kicking idly at a mound of dirt and leaves they'd managed to churn up. "I'd have made it suffer a bit more if-"

"I know."

"And did you see-"

"I did."

Some of them raised their heads, Siv looking directly into Shane's camera, something the unnerved the Seer in her seated position so far away. No one had dared to look at her directly yet, none of them had even thought about it. But Tom being Tom – he remembered. He'd remembered that although none of them had been there, a mile or so away their little team had had to bear witness to the death of one of their own, unable to help or do anything to stop it. They'd been out fighting their own battles, but Rebekah and Jo and Sid had all fought alongside every last one of them, some more than others, though Sid (even without his tech) probably had it worse off than any of them. He hadn't even got a chance to see, he'd just been forced to listen to the audio feed from Graham's microphone before they'd cut the signal in the front seat. Siv remembered because Siv always remembered – that was just the type of guy Tom was.

"Fuck's sake-" Shane muttered, slamming a knife into the nearest tree, the hunter running a hand harshly though his hair. "Oh Beck-"

"Now's not the time for this," she murmured, Jo offering her a tissue as they mimicked each other in wiping away their own grief. "There's still three left. Fan out in two halves. Will get the job done faster and safer."

"I recommend Jen and Richard take Tamara, Siv and Shane are you-"

"We're good to go."

Jo tapped a few things into the tablet in her hand, scrolling through one setting or another as she changed the colour of the two teams' markers. "That'll do. One head West, the other East and then wrap round North. They wouldn't have gotten behind you."

"I should fucking hope not."

"Rendezvous in about half an hour. If we can't find them then-"

"Doubt we'll find them at all."

The home base team became suddenly obsolete, leaving Sid and Jo to mutter amongst themselves, both hunter and huntress holding a half-hearted conversation through the crack in the sun roof. Rebekah resorted to once again flicking through all of the cameras they had in action, avoiding those that had been damaged, those that offered nought but static and keeping a wide birth from one in particular, a blank screen that still offered a flickering image every now and again, the name GRAHAM buzzing with static in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. She let herself come to rest on his feed only once, nails mindlessly picking at her lips as she waited for a picture. She didn't want to, but in a way it came as some form of closure. In her own way, she wanted to see the last thing Graham would have seen before he'd closed his eyes against death. When the image finally flickered into view she made sure to take a screen shot, saving it to a file on the tablet to show Sid later on, if he was interested. And Sid had been, and later on that night he'd excused himself from their collective mourning to take some time alone to 'breathe' as he put it, though when Meredith had come down from her room an hour or so later she'd asked which one of them had been crying because, in her innocence, she'd said that the noise had frightened away the birds she'd been observing. None of them had really given an answer. And Mer had taken the hint and disappeared rather quickly after that, Rebekah finding her in the East Wing studying human emotional habits from an old volume that was bigger than her. When her family had asked what she'd done, she'd shown them the screen cap, an image of a blue cloudless sky forcing its way through the canopy, of dappled leaves and of beams of light that shimmered with motes of dust. And in the bottom right hand corner Graham's name sat in bold white letters, and none of them said anything more about the subject after that.

"Any word yet?"

"Still hopeful?"

"Aren't I always?"

To Rebekah's relief Sid had begun humming again, and to further said relief she found comfort in the fact that it was still as jumpy and of out of tune as it had been at the start of their venture. They found themselves relaxing at least a little, Jo no longer seated bolt upright in her chair, crossbow no longer her comfort blanket she as surfed the web through someone else's open Wi-Fi gateway, tablet still open to their markers on her knees, fingers flicking through page after page of denim related garments, something that even managed to make Beck smile. She allowed herself a sip of water, the liquid running cool and clear down her throat as it banished away the dust and sand that had clogged her gullet for what seemed like far too long. She split the rest three ways, emptying the contents into three thirsty open mouths as her boys and her old girl lapped at the remains, Alistair seeming to feel a little bit more human after that.

She pulled off the visor, sunlight blinding her as she fumbled with her own screen, rerouting the network connection through the tablet, plugging her trigger into the USB port to allow her to flick once more through the various camera settings. It was a welcome relief to her eyes and her head, Beck combing her fingers through the tangles in her hair, massaging the aches away from her temples. It was all drawing to a close, close enough that she felt herself shutting her eyes for a brief moment.

_They're so fast. They don't take bullets- bullets have no effect, Sid's shotgun is useless, only good at blowing chunks from their flesh though that would heal up in no time. One of them rips the gun from his hands, breaks it over their knee. At least they've found the three of them. The clan wouldn't make it. They'd be dead before they got there. The Pack would make it, but they wouldn't be able to kill three of them. We were alone in this. Vision flickers. Jo is on the floor, clutching her side. Blood seeps through her fingers. That's the worst possible thing that could happen. They are driven wild. I plant an arrow in one of their backs and it falls to its knees; Sid takes off its head. But she's not alone. _

"_Beck? Beck! Beck?"_

"Rebekah!"

She came awake with a start, a start that almost had her driving herself into the dashboard. The dogs were barking, Sid swearing as he fired shot after shot after shot, empty gun cartridges falling onto the back seat, the smell of burning powder in the air, thick and strong and collecting at the back of her throat. Jo had returned back to her comfort, tablet on the floor of the truck long forgotten, the girl firing bolts soaked in blood with practiced precision, taking one down in the knee, the other's charging forwards despite looking like flesh coloured hunks of Swiss cheese. Jo looked down through the sun roof when she realised she was awake, giving her a kick in the side to hurry along the process, her eyes wide as the hunter fumbled around trying to rub life back into her legs and ass.

"You were asleep! Why the hell were you asleep?"

"Because I was Seeing this bullshit," she groaned, "you know how Foresight is."

"Yes. Widely unpredictable but-"

"What she's tryin' to say is you need to get your shit together Princess – before we-"

"I am trying' okay! Gimme'a second here!"

It went unsaid that neither of them had a second to spare.

"I hate these fuckin' things," she muttered as she heaved herself up through the sun roof, light blinding her Sight addled eyes as she scrambled to get purchase on the boiling metal.

They dragged Alistair up through the window, the great hulk of a thing needing two of them to haul his furry ass up into the bed of the truck, Jo taking his collar, Beck wrapping her arms round his middle. He was the only one Beck would dare let loose on the things that were still in the process of breaching their defences, the only one big enough to take one on without losing a limb, the only one she knew could survive a one on one and still live to tail the tale. Sky was too old and Axel would be a mouthful, an entrée so to speak in terms of a living, breathing meal on legs. Sid was still blowing holes through them, Jo was still firing bolts left right and centre. Rebekah added her own dollars' worth into the mix, firing her brother's old pistol into the fray, blowing an ear off here and puncturing a lung there. But it just wasn't enough.

Jo wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, muttering some profanity Beck didn't even realise she knew as one tried to scramble up the side of the truck, the young Harvelle booting it in the face as it made a grab for her left leg.

"How's it lookin'?"

"Are you serious," she laughed, the sound almost hysterical as she sent a metal bolt through an eye, Beck having to avert her gaze. "How do you think it's looking?"

"I mean how many bolts d'you have left," Beck muttered, shoving her pistol back into her jeans, wrapping her arms protectively around Alistair as he snapped at their flailing libs, a vile mix of froth and saliva collecting in the corners of his maw, clinging to his fur, clinging to her clothes and skin as he battled against her. He was a good boy and an even better solider, but he didn't know the meaning of the word 'no' or (even more foreign to him) 'settle the fuck down'.

Jo swore again, crushing a hand underfoot, "not enough if that's what you mean."

"And I'm almost out – just to add to the good news."

"Great. Just great."

_You can feel it pumping through your veins, thrumming in your head. It burns you from the inside out, like it's corroding your insides – like acid. And you know where it is, know where it hasn't been yet, where it's touched and where you want it to touch. It never leaves, its always at the back of your mind – a thought that never goes away. You are always aware of it. Always. And you thirst for it, you know you do. You can feel it, clawing up your pipes, raking its nails down your throat, sits heavy on your tongue. You're thirsty but no amount of water will ever get rid of the feeling. But you try anyway because you're a fucking desperate moron, and desperate people try anything. And you've done that – haven't you? Tried everything. Tried water. Tried whiskey. You drank yourself into oblivion the other month because you could feel it. And then it all went away didn't it – and it's gone now… hasn't it? You haven't got that feeling anymore. You're not thirsty anymore. Can't remember though can you – the last time your pretty pink lips stained themselves red. Blank it out Beck – the blood. Took the coward's way out the first time you tasted it. Blocked it. It never happened. They never talked about it again did they? Couldn't look you in the eye for months. But you know, that mutt knows. You remember how it felt, what it tasted like. You were a slave to it, whored off it. Got off on the taste. And then they caught you didn't they? They found you drowning and they just didn't have it in them to pull you out. Jake was going to plant a bullet in your brain – remember that? You never went back after that – or did you? Did you seriously think you could stop – that you were strong enough to get out? You're weak. You always were Rebekah and you always will be. And you know it… don't you. _

She opened her eyes.

It was an entirely different scene to the one she'd turned her back on. The sky was heavier, greyer, as though it was about to unleash a torrent of rain. The sun seemed suffocated, lost in amongst the masses of thunderous clouds that had gathered. She hadn't a clue how long she'd been out though, as she found herself adjusting, she began to wonder if she'd even been out at all. Her teeth rattled in her skull as a thunder clap struck from somewhere above her head, rain beginning to stain small pin pricks of plaid dark as she turned her face towards the sky, water running down her feverish skin as the heavens above continued to bay for blood. She could feel Alistair at her side, his tongue between her fingers, nose against her palm. She shifted awkwardly in her stance, rubbed her eyes clear with the heel of her hand, shook her head, cleared herself of yet more black feathers.

"Beck?"

The voice came from behind her though, as she turned, she couldn't decide whether what she was seeing was yet another sliver of Sight or if what had happened had really happened. Logically though, she knew. Jo lay in a steadily growing pool of her own blood, great long gashes raked into her side and abdomen, hands clasped over the wound as though she was trying in vain to hold herself in. Her skin had gone a funny colour, a sickly pale, a pale that Beck didn't like at all. As she reached out to her the girl shifted nervously in the grass, blue tinged lips drawn in a long, thin, agitated line. Beck pulled back.

"Jo-"

Sid was at her side, scooping her up like a father would his daughter. Her head lolled a little in his shoulder, though she never took her eyes off her sister. Sid's attentions seemed somewhere else entirely.

"Do you even see-"

It was only then that she realised where her other hand was – what it was doing. Beck hesitantly turned her head, vision slightly out of focus, noted how her fingers were splayed, her arm outstretched. She could feel it pumping through her veins, thrumming in her head – feel how it scorched her from the inside out, how it set her alight and bubbled in her gut. But she didn't know what it was; only that it burnt like the pits of hell and it wouldn't stop. It squirmed against the metal of the truck, windows smashed through, glass dusting the floor and glittering like a thousand tiny stars. Its body had so many holes in it it was a surprise it was still alive, but they didn't die like that – at least not any one that Rebekah had ever seen. And, as pretty as a necklace, it wore a length of wire around its neck, a strip of metal that seemed to have been steadily constricting for more time than the hunter would care to imagine, long enough that it had dug through the flesh, blood seeping down it's body through its eyes and mouth and wounds. She didn't like mess – but it appeared she had made a very big one indeed.

She dropped it, pulled her arm away, retracted her hand like a gun. It felt as though a massive weight had simply vanished, the thing falling to a spluttering heap at her feet, bent double as it coughed up all manner of things into a puddle by her boots. Her shoulder ached, her head even more so, the hunter having to stem the flow of blood from her nose with her shirt as she took a step back, admiring her handiwork. And it was still there, still humming in her veins. She could feel it niggling at the back of her head, feel it rising in her. It felt akin to anger, but it burnt hotter than anything she'd ever experienced before. And she'd been angry before, so angry her vision had flooded white, but nothing like that. Nothing felt as strong as that.

It dawned on her then the enormity of the situation – what it meant for her. She couldn't look at them, didn't dare to. She was shaking more than she had a couple of days previous, no longer through cold but through something more, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort, Alistair butting her thigh so that she'd remember he was still there. She'd done that to a human being without laying a finger on it – what had been a human being anyway. And it was in pain, more pain than she knew she'd ever experienced, more pain than anything she'd ever seen. The vampire, a woman, shied away from her touch as she knelt before it, Rebekah cupping her cheek, digging her fingers beneath the wire to loosen it. It'd probably do more harm than good, but that didn't even come into calculation. It was a matter of principal more than anything else. The noises she made were guttural and turned the hunter's stomach, made her feel sick beyond that of a hangover. She gurgled and grasped at her bleeding throat as she struggled to breath, Beck taking a step back, reaching into the bed of the truck, the creature always in her peripheral as she pulled the knife from her knapsack, fabric spattered with blood and oil from the day's proceedings. She didn't look when she brought it down, she just trusted in the fact it wouldn't move. It didn't.

She stole another look at Jo as she threw her weapons back into the bed of her baby, saw the look on her face, knew the look – had seen it before. Jake would have shot her, she knew that. She'd asked him too. Visions like hers always came true no matter what you did to change them. If it said you would turn right and you'd turn left to spite it you'd always end up turning that right at the end of the day. Same came with lives, with loves, even with loss. If it was going to happen it'd happen, there was no changing that. She had Seen Sid's gun get destroyed and it had happened, it lay a few feet away, shattered into pieces, bent metal and fractured shards of wood nothing more than toothpicks and nails in the hands of one of the BSBs. And she'd Seen Jo get all torn up and bloodied and hadn't done a thing about it, hadn't even told her, couldn't even bring herself to. What was the point? It'd happen regardless of what any of them would try to do. And it had happened, and she was ill and on the edge. It wasn't bad enough that she wouldn't pull through, but she'd be out of action for a long time. Visions were all the same, they told the truth even when you'd buried it a long time ago. It just so happened Jo had seen what Meredith had not and, in Beck's mind, she was going to keep it that way.


	10. Chapter Nine: Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

**If your name is Emily. Please – for all that is holy. If our friendship holds any sanctity and you are reading this please God skip this chapter. It's got sex in it Em – sexual acts. These are not for your eyes and I would prefer it if you never EVER mentioned this in conversation. Because I will have to resort to playing squash with you. I mean it – I will.**

**Anyone else – go right ahead. **

**Recommend Soundtrack:**

_30 Seconds To Mars—Stranger in a Strange Land_

_Florence and the Machine—7 Devils_

_Katy B—Witches Brew_

_Sugarcult—Destination Anywhere_

_Eisley—Invasion_

**Chapter Nine**

_Unidentified Motel, South Dakota. 11.58 p.m._

_Thursday 25__th__ September 2008. _

He sat with his head in his hands, fingers curled deep within the very tangled roots of his hair as though that would keep him grounded. He could feel himself floating further and further away from the body he'd trusted to keep him contained, the vessel that was now betraying his trust by letting him break free and let loose. It was always the same – always the case whenever he'd shot himself up with blood like some junkie, the scarlet nectar setting his veins alight from the inside, making him shiver, setting his eyes ablaze, his pupils dilating to an almost ludicrous size beneath his flickering lashes. And he'd ride it out, grit his teeth through the aftershocks until the high would come, the feelings of invincibility and invigoration that never failed him, though now it seemed it took a lot more to get him there than simply a couple of mouthfuls. The demon and been right – he'd been running on empty.

He hated himself for how much he needed it – the extent of his addition. It had come to a point where he'd had to beg and she, the demonic bitch she was, had seemed to find this to her satisfaction, getting off on it, making him ask her nicely, relenting only when he'd had her up against the wall, hand around her throat, threatening to do it himself and empty her completely. Even then she'd smiled. She knew fully well he wouldn't – couldn't. She was a walking bottle of blood that he could open almost anytime he needed it most. Without her he'd surely starve, and that freaked him out more than anything. He'd come to rely on a demon to survive and that was so, _so _wrong.

But she didn't give him time to ride out the aftermath, making Sam flinch like a startled deer as she wormed her way into his lap, her teeth grazing his ear sending a shudder through his body that he couldn't find the strength to contain. He needed at least another five minutes before it'd begin to kick in, when he'd get his strength and his wits back and actually be able to put up some sort of resistance. But the kisses she began to plant against his neck and jaw didn't stir anger in his gut. Instead, each touch of her lips against his feverish skin cast him further into a conflict he didn't quite understand and Sam found himself torn between proving his brother right and proving him wrong. To prove Dean wrong Sam would have to say 'no' and, from the way his body reacted to her touch, that didn't seem likely.

He dropped his arms as she pushed herself closer, hands resting limply against her thighs in a half-hearted defeat as she buried her fingers in his thick hair, the cold tip of her tongue tracing the veins and sinews of his neck so delicately he almost came undone at that. He was shivering far more than he would have liked, body trembling against the heat of hers, instinct forcing him to pull her closer in a simple bid to bring some sick form of warmth to his freezing skin. He could feel her self-satisfied smile against the base of his jaw, a fingernail gliding steadily down his chest to halt and hover just above the buttons of his shirt, each one coming undone beneath her nimble fingers until he was sat there bare-chested beneath her explorative hands. Her own bare skin was almost unbearably hot whenever it came into contact with his, her touch leaving behind a burning sensation as though she was branding him. And he felt branded, registered to her both inside and out as she began to play tentatively with the buckle of his belt, coming to terms with his slave-status as he made no move to stop her.

He was torn between needing her and hating her; though he found it odd how often those two coincided. Some days her presence would make him feel sick, ill, a reminder of what he was and how much of a freak he'd become. But it'd pass, it'd always pass, and he'd find himself fucked raw against a cheap motel mattress or in the back seat of a hire car, lips stained red with her blood, body buzzing off the combined high of an orgasm and the drug he'd have pumping in his veins. And this happened to be one of those nights, a night where he couldn't stand to be around his own brother, a night where he felt like conforming to his label and fucking the devil herself.

"Ruby I-"

"Shhhh," she fussed, lips pursed, fingernails digging into his cheek as she held his face tight in her hand, planting a cruel kiss against his. "Shhh Sam. You can feel it can't you – building? I can see it Sam – in your eyes."

He tore himself away from her grasp, turning his head, fighting the bonds of her overpowering touch. He knew how dark his eyes must have looked, seen it too many times before in the bathroom or car mirror after a session, how black and demonic they'd become after a feed. And he was steadily beginning to like the look – didn't feel confident enough without it, without the feeling of power that always came after he drank her down.

"Bu-"

She cut him off, her breath hot and damp against his throat, lips suddenly flickering at his ear.

"What do you want Sam."

The hunter's stomach tightened. He swallowed hard, mouth now completely dry.

"I-"

"Come on baby boy-"

He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him at the use of the term, something Dean had called him ever seen he'd been old enough to talk – maybe even before that. But he felt no endearment towards the nickname, nothing nostalgic or comforting. There was just sickness, a blind white heat in the pits of his being that threatened to make him boil over, just like in the car a couple of days before. The way he'd looked at him like he was a monster – the tears that stung his eyes as he'd turned his back on him and slammed the door in his face. And that girl – the hunter with the crimson lips and long limbs, the one that had lied and cheated her way out of a situation he'd saved her from, denying its existence, making him look like some fucking-

"Make me forget."

"Your name?" she murmured, the leather of his belt hissing violently as it was pulled free of the loops of denim, clanking noisily as it hit the floor tiles of the kitchenette.

Sam turned his head, catching her eyes, deep and brown and borderline black.

"Everything."

And she was gone before he could say another word, not that he had anything else planned. He could already feel a sense of arousal unfurling in his stomach, something that finally managed to bring a flush to his skin and banish the cold for at least a little while. He already felt stronger in himself, strength flooding back as the substance in his veins took effect, as the addiction finally began to kick in and give him wings. He found himself gone into a sense of nothingness long before she'd removed his jeans and boxers, the garments thrown haphazardly into a growing pile in the corner. Even without her he knew he would have forgotten his name, so lost was he in the growing tide of feeling and sensation he barely even noticed her ease his legs apart, palms burning his thighs as she wrapped her arms around him to hold him there in place, not even drawing on her supernatural strength to keep him under control, comfortable in the fact he wouldn't fight her.

And he had no desire to fight her, falling as he did against the white sheets of the motel mattress, night sky opening up against the faded white tiles of the ceiling. Sam Winchester was adrift in a mass ocean of bleached thoughts and memories, their beings so pale and effects so minute he simply had to spread his arms and legs wide and close his eyes to tune them out, floating atop wave after wave of troubles and anxieties like a salted piece of driftwood, worn down and battered but light enough to ride out the worst of things.

"Ruby, who's Sa-"

Sam bit off the finality of his question as a warm, wet and entirely wonderful sensation set his body alight. His eyes snapped open, his body bowing against the bed as she took him deeper, cold palm gripping the base of his cock, nails of her free hand digging painfully into his ass as he squirmed in her grasp. He gasped as he tried to catch his breath, his previous words wasting what little air he'd had in his lungs leaving him floundering like a fish out of water. She released him, fingers tracing the hills and valleys of his hips and abdomen with such precision it was as though she already had him mapped out, her tongue gently caressing the sensitive skin until he was almost driven out of his mind. Sam threw his head back, his hands gathering and constricting themselves in the sheets of the bed as her head came forward even more, ends of her long hair tickling the insides of his thighs. He was still floating, still riding out the waves but they were getting steadily wilder and, like his eyes, darker. He was getting lost in the rhythm of her mouth around his dick, almost losing it as she began to hum what sounded (and felt) to him like _The Ace of Spades. _Every fibre of his being was drawn out and strung taught, his ribs pressing hard against the confines of his chest as he sucked in whatever breaths he could manage between his steadily lengthening moans.

Arousal pulsed through his body, a feeling that almost managed to cancel out the acidic sensation of the demon blood that bathed his insides with its supernatural touch. He was almost there – almost completely gone. But she was unrelenting, cruel in the ways she worked him. She'd feel him come close, his body trembling beneath her touch but she'd back off, work him slower, barely touch him, forcing him to come back down until she had the pleasure to drag him back up high again.

"Please – God Ruby – fuck. Please."

Either she was feeling merciless or she'd just had enough, but the demon seemed willing to comply with the hunter's broken, somewhat vague, demands and allowed him swift release, her frozen palm now working his cock alongside her playful tongue until his body hit its limit, the bridge of his body collapsing in as he fell back, her hands releasing him as she rode down from his orgasm, the tremors of which rocked his body in a fit of shivers and shakes. But she wasn't finished with him despite his state, and Ruby climbed back into him, her tongue penetrating the weak wall of his parted lips allowing Sam a taste of what he'd 'graced' her with, the Winchester barely able to deny the oncoming storm. Her kisses were hard, her hands even more so as she continued to work his tender flesh with her fingertips, tears stinging his eyes though he had little strength left to fight her off. If she wanted to make him come again she was going about it the right way, but instead of giving him that satisfaction she left him half hard and broken against the bed, a gentle kiss against his temple and a soft ruffle of his hair the last contact he'd have with her that night.

She unfurled herself from his long and tangled limbs, Sam's eyes barely able to focus on her as she leant in to him, lips once more fluttering at his ear, breath now somehow cold against the nape of his neck. Sam's fingers achingly released the sheets, his vision clouding, head neither here nor there as she bid him goodnight.

"What's your name?"

"I don't know."

"What can you remember?"

"Nothing."

"And who owns your ass?"

Sam managed to hiss, though it sounded more like a sigh, even to him. He closed his eyes, head lolling back against the crook of his arm as he rolled onto his side, away from her prying gaze, feeling far more exposed than he'd ever felt before – far too visible – far too vulnerable.

She smiled.

"Good boy."

( )

_Aston Lodge, Brookfield, Missouri 3.33 p.m._

_Friday 26__th__ September 2008. _

They'd driven home separately, Rebekah driving alone in her battered baby with only Alistair for company, Sid riding alongside Jo with Jen and Siv as medical support and Richard driving. Sky and Axel has gone with Shane and Ty, Beck not really trusting the little boxer to survive the journey considering how much he loved sticking his head out the window. At the end of the day there was no window, and the likelihood of him falling out was far greater than the chance he'd stay seated. Sky had gone with her cousin simply because the back seats were covered in broken glass, the old collie already obtaining a fair few cuts from being in the midst of the original impact, her master not really wanting to have her back there in what could only be referred to as a 'doggy death trap'.

Rebekah drifted numbly in the warm waters of her bath, steam rising in tendrils through the vapour, her naked body a vile stain against the pure white of the suite, her hands hard, calloused, dirty things whenever she placed them against the sides of the tub. So she floated instead, not wanting to touch the purity, more comfortable hovering in the steadily greying waters. She'd slept all day, a good twenty hours or so of nothing but unconsciousness. She hadn't seen a soul, not even Meredith. They'd returned home and she'd collapsed on the doorstep and, drawing the short straw, Shane had collected her up in his arms or flung her over his back and taken her to her room. She'd awoken to a glass of water and a dry bread roll (seemingly harsh but her favourite) and that had been that.

"You don't have to keep watchin' me ya'know," she muttered, lathering her shoulders in sweet smelling suds.

Alistair failed to move, failed to even acknowledge she was talking to him. He sat erect, tail idly swishing by the towel rack.

"I'm fine," she sighed, quickly submerging herself.

She wasn't fine. She was in the process of trying to boil the impurity from herself and she still wasn't fine. However, submergence allowed her to see things a little differently. The water was warm, washed over her body in waves. Her hair tickled and caressed her skin wherever it touched, planting kisses against her ribs, her back, her cheeks. It was flying without the fear, the pressure that builds up from holding your breath a welcome release from all her niggling thoughts. Rebekah thought about them regardless as she spread out her arms, keeping herself from running adrift, anchoring herself down using the cold metal handles as support. It felt to her as though there was a stone lodged in her chest, a stone that was steadily growing in size the longer she remained beneath the waters. It wasn't something that made her feel any discomfort; as a matter of fact the giddiness she felt was somewhat pleasurable. She had lots of thoughts, thoughts she was scared would come back angry and loud. But beneath the water and the warmth things were quieter save the heartbeat that hummed in your ears. Her thoughts were quiet, timid little things, far more enticing than those that had swarmed her a few days previous.

She let out a little of her breath, bubbles rising from her pursed lips, some tickling her nose, others rising to the surface as she opened her eyes to follow them. The stone in her chest became that little bit smaller. She pulled herself up, surfaced, gasped for breath. It was like being born. She didn't spend long in the air, only long enough for her to drink in a little more air and be that little bit kinder to her lungs, wipe the water from her eyes. She winked at her baby boy once before she immersed herself back into the world she found she preferred, hair floating in fronds and coils around her head like an earthen halo, her hands returning to the handles to make sure she stayed under.

She'd be seeing her Angel in a few days, though she'd long ago ticked that thought off her check list. In her mind she allowed herself to roam, faces flickering behind her eyelids. She travelled backwards, back through the days, her life played out in a slideshow in her oxygen starved brain. She saw the look on Jo's face, the look on Sid's. Graham died, the image replaced by the screen cap of his last sight. Dust motes mottled the dappled canopy. Shane hung her upside down, her babies licked her face. She ate chips, flicked them at her cousin. She relived a look on Jo's face again, a happier one, as she watched Meredith immerse herself in what she had to show her. Mer with her books, tucked away in the East Wing. A dream catcher twizzling overhead, a tear shed. Endless images of car journeys, a crash, a kind stranger stopping to help. Her Jake, her Joe, all manner of things she fought not to remember. She let out another stream of bubbles as she felt herself slipping back into her old ways, eyes flickering in the water. She kept herself submerged however, calmed her mind, threw herself back further. The smell of worn leather, of blood and of bandages. A key without key rings. An oversized pair of boots by the door. There's a tattoo to match hers, eyes too green to look at, a man with the face of an angel on her couch. Then there's just darkness, nothing but soft touches of feather-light hands piecing her back together.

Beck's eyes snapped open, her mouth opening, water flooding in. She choked, forced herself upwards, blinking away the water as it streamed down her body, her arms wrapped around her chest as she coughed up the water she'd inhaled. She ran her hands through her hair, pulled it back out of her face, breathing in as deep and as long as she could manage, her body shaking as she continued to cough and wheeze against the water in her chest. She shook her head, tried to rid it from her ears, the stuff streaming from her nose and her eyes as she tried to wipe it away with the heels of her hands. She knew the look on Alistair's face without even needing to see, the hunter throwing a sponge haphazardly in his general direction in a bid to wipe it off.

"That wasn't one of your best ideas – was it."

She was perched on the toilet seat; body bandaged beneath her tank top, hair tied back in a crude ponytail. She was still marred by dirt and blood, much of it staining her skin where the bruises did not, long strips of white running across areas of semi-exposed skin the only things that could really be referred to as clean. But someone had sponged her down, carefully and gently cleaned her face and her hair, got the worst off her arms and legs and abdomen as best as they could. She looked better for it – better than Rebekah remembered her looking anyway.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

The irony actually stung a little, though Jo laughed all the same.

"Could say the same for you – where've you been Princess? They were gettin' worried downstairs."

Beck shrugged, for the first time really acknowledging Jo's presence, realising she was in fact incredibly naked beneath what few bubbles there were left. She pulled her knees up to her chest and repositioned her hair over her breasts in a bid to protect her modesty, though she knew she had very little of that left. She wasn't very nonchalant about it either, something that seemed to amuse her observer.

"I've been out," she muttered, shuffling uncomfortably in the tub. "Jo – I mean I-"

The other hunter held up a hand, cutting her off. "Save it. I know – it's fine. You saved us – why the fuck would I be pissed about that?"

"It wasn't exactly me savin' your asses in the 'tradtional' sense o'things now was it?"

She frowned, setting her chin on her fist. "We're here. How does it matter how that ended up? I'm alive. I can go home to my mom and Sid can go and – well do whatever it is that Sid's do. Who cares if you-"

Beck winced at the falter, watched her friend choose her words carefully. In the end, she ran out of patience.

"If I went dark-side."

"Shut up Beck," Jo smiled, picking the sponge up off the floor and throwing it at her head, the thing hitting her right between the eyes. "You didn't go dark-side you idiot, you just – scared us… a little bit," she murmured, measuring how much she'd actually scared her between her thumb and forefinger. "No damage done. See – I'm alive and kickin' and throwin' stuff at you. Outcome's fine. Now would you stop tryin' to drown yourself and get out the bath please?"

"Why?" She wondered, hunter making to submerge herself again, longing for the warmth of the water over her head.

She smirked, "because we ordered in Chinese food. That's why – now get your ass out the water before I start throwing bottles of shit at you."

Jo left quite soon after that, lobbing a bar of soap at her head before exiting out the way she'd come in, leaving the door just ajar enough for the scents of foreign cuisine to come snaking through the mist, her stomach kick started into chewing on itself as she emptied out the water. The plug sputtered and spurted as the water drained away, a once white bathtub now stained with streaks of brown and grey and red. She looked down at her naked body; saw how honest her wounds had become now that they no longer hid behind the dirt and grime. She was back to the girl she'd been a few days ago, damp hair, flushed cheeks and rose-scented skin, a girl who ached for the noodles she knew sat downstairs waiting for her in the main house. There was no Graham, no car crash – no recollection of a girl gone dark-side in the middle of a hunt. There was just the food she'd fill herself to the brim with, the chatter of close company and the warmth of the open fire in the living room. Though, as she stepped out onto the cold tiles and inspected herself in the mirror, she managed to find remnants of another person, someone that was not her. She fingered the clean stitches of a gash, turned to examine the criss-cross bruises on her back. She felt their presence there then, his cold skin beneath her fingertips, hands against her body. She shivered and donned a dressing gown, ignoring a bra as she pulled herself into those same baby blue briefs, her feet padding against the laminate as she rushed herself away from the bath tub that still lay stained with the dregs of the girl she wanted not to be.

(*)

_Unidentified Motel, South Dakota. 8.17 a.m._

_Friday 26__th__ September 2008_

Sam buried his face in his breakfast, adopting a far more feral approach when it came to dealing with his bacon. It was his favourite, the way Dean always used to do it, burnt to a crisp and so crunchy it made his eyes water when he chewed it. But that was the best way to eat it and the only way to cook it – the only right way anyway. He couldn't remember ever being that hungry before. He knew he'd been running on empty, hadn't eaten properly in a while, had swapped out food and drink for demon blood but – well he just wouldn't get full. He was on his third plate of bacon and his second breakfast muffin, table covered in crumbs and ketchup as he continued to inhale anything that Ruby placed in front of him. He chugged juice and water by the pint, washing down the plug of food in his throat as he'd take down another plate full of saturated fats and carbohydrates, a vegetable never once passing his lips unless you counted the can of beans he'd started with about an hour or so ago.

"Sam," she laughed, pulling his plate away from him in a bid to get him to breathe. "Sam? Slow down would ya'? I'm running out of bacon."

"We'll just – we'll get more," he muttered through a mouthful of bread, hunter dragging his plate back in front of him. "I'm starving."

"Yeah," she smiled, leaning back in her chair. "I can see that."

He did at least a slow down a little, much to Ruby's relief. She'd been starting to get at least a little worried about him; the behaviour was completely unlike the Same Winchester she'd gotten to know. She'd never seen any human demolish as much food as he had in the given time frame, the demon crossing her arms over her chest actually impressed on his behalf, Sam digging through a swiftly emptying bag of bread for another piece, grinning as he wiped it around the now empty plate in an attempt to gather up any remnants of flavour from the cheap plastic. He looked like a child, ketchup smeared around his mouth, a different kind of red staining his lips this time. She was glad to see him well, as much as she didn't like the idea. In a way, it sort of meant she was doing her job right. He was happy, he was healthy and he was strong and if all that meant he had to eat his way through another whole pig then she'd go and wrangle one up for him herself. She felt more comfortable looking at the whole situation from that point of view, the demon giving herself a quick pat on the back for her good work.

"Ruby – I'm out of bread."

"You're also out of beans and bacon and eggs hot-shot. I think it's time to stop now… don't you?"

He rocked back on the legs of his chair, hands clasped over his distended stomach. It was only then that Ruby decided Sam Winchester's legs were completely hollow, any other person would have been fit to burst. But Sam wasn't done just yet, the hunter leaning back, hands buried deep in a cupboard by the sink as he rifled through their simple provisions, the younger man's hands coming to rest on a packet of beef jerky and a jar of peanut butter. He pulled them out and popped them on the table, Ruby watching him undress them with his eyes as he decided where he wanted to start.

"If you even dare dip one in the other I swear to God Sam I'm leaving."

He scoffed, "you're the one judging me – on _my _eating habits? That's rich," he smiled, screwing off the lid of the jar. "How do you know if you haven't tried it?"

"Just – no. Stop. I'll get you a spoon for the peanut crap, just don't – don't – or do…you know – whatever," she sighed exasperated, pulling herself from her seat to fetch him a spoon, averting her eyes as he gnawed on the dried meat.

He'd been like that all morning, out of character, ravenous, dehydrated, begging her for water or for alcohol or beans or toast or whatever it was that he craved. It wasn't blood anymore, they'd taken care of that and the sex that had followed in the early hours of the morning, Sam having woken sweating and flustered, finding solace in and around her body and she'd been more than happy to humour him. She slipped the spoon in the jar and ran her fingers through his hair on passing, mussing it in the way she liked, settling herself back down in her chair across the way from him as Sam continued to mix foods that certainly weren't bedfellows.

"Ruby?" he mumbled, Sam resting his chin on his fist as he chewed the jerky idly.

"Mhmm," she smiled, sipping her coffee. "What Sam?"

"Who's Samantha?"

She raised an eyebrow, Sam looking at her like child. That was what he was acting like she thought as she ran a hand through her hair, taking down another mouthful of warm brown water (the coffee they served at the motel barely passing her even lowest standards). She drummed her nails against the table, mind racing, wondering why on earth Sam Winchester would be asking about another demon, a demon she was very certain he'd never spoken to or even come into contact with. There was only one Samantha after all, just like there was only one Ruby, one Azazel and one Meg. But why her of all people?

"She's a demon," she muttered, adding another sachet or two of sugar into the bleak waters of her drink. "Why?"

"I er – I heard her name mentioned by a demon a few days ago. I was just wondering-"

"Listen," she sighed, pushing her drink backwards and forwards between the palms of her hands, "she's not someone you wanna' get tangled up with. Demonic big-leagues Sam, the biggest bitch around if you don't count Lilith."

He no longer looked so innocently serene, the look he'd been wearing since he'd woken up that morning and she'd emptied their cupboards for him. She felt a pang of something in her meat suit, realised she missed the look, took another chug of the vile tasting coffee in a bid to rid herself of the idea. It didn't seem to want to go anywhere however, lodged as it was somewhere between her chest and her brain. That was just great – just fantastic.

"Why not?"

"Just – because. I told you so, that's why not. She's one of those with a funny little gift she likes lording over everyone – just because she can. You'd get crushed Sam."

"It's not like I'm going to go looking for a fight Ruby," he exclaimed, "I just wanna' know what – who she is."

Ruby shrugged. "And anyway, you probably wouldn't even remember meeting her. She does that," she muttered, Sam only managing to pick up something or other about someone being a 'crazy egotistical bitch'.

"Why?"

"Sam – why all the questions? Why? Because that's what she does. She erases memories, fucks with them, alters them so you don't know your elbow from your ass. That's why."

"But h-"

She slammed her hands down against the table causing Sam to almost fall out of his chair. Her insult to coffee was in the process of pooling on the table, growing steadily at the raised edges where it began to drip to the floor at their feet, Sam's toes retracting a little as it splashed him. He looked at her quizzically, like a puppy, head tilted a little to the side, hair flopping over his eyes. There was a smile on his face though, a look that made her blood boil a little. He liked it when she got pissed. It didn't happen often but, when it did, he seemed to get off on it a little bit – especially when he'd caused it. So she inhaled deeply and slumped herself back in her chair, brought her crossed legs up onto the table, boots spattering the dirty water over Sam's bare chest, smile disappearing a little as he reached for a cloth to wipe it away.

"There's a can of hotdogs in the top left cupboard and a packet of old bread buns under the sink. Knock yourself out Princess."

She watched him set back to work, though she couldn't seem to shake the feeling. She was uncomfortable in her position, teetering on the edge a little. It had been black and white to begin with, human and demon, a job that needed doing and she'd been the one to do it. He'd been a name, a face, a bag of blood, bones and hormones wrapped in a sack of skin – just like all the rest of them. And it had been plain sailing for a while, he hated her, she hated him, hated his race, his dick of a brother with his weird obsession with the tin can he called a car, hated the old man with the dirty cap. They were all the same or so she'd been told. They were weak, spineless, pathetic things. They were only good for playing with, for using; put them back in the toy box when you were done. Black and white – simple.

"Can you pass the ketchup?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Please," he grinned, crumbs sprouting from his skin like stubble.

She smiled, pushed the bottle in his general direction, watched him squirt the sauce directly into his mouth, shoving a hotdog and a bun in its entirety in after it. Simple – it wasn't fucking simple anymore. She had her duty, she knew that. She'd rather die than fail her – that possibility didn't even bare thinking about. It'd never happen – she wouldn't allow it. But if there was some way that Sam wouldn't get hurt, some way that she could help him along just a little then she'd jump at it. He'd been a name, a face, a bag of blood and bones and hormones wrapped up in a sack of skin but she'd gotten to know that bag of skin pretty damn well. As a matter of fact, she thought she knew him better than she knew herself. She happened to know he sang in the shower, that he got pissed if you touched his laptop, that his family meant more to him than anything in the world. He didn't like daytime telly and had a horrendous music taste, but play Bon Jovi and he'd go all quiet and pensive. Sam hated mustard on his hotdogs but couldn't get enough of ketchup, that he'd wake up at least three times throughout the course of the night to flip his pillow over because he liked the cold side best but, try and wake him after that and you didn't have a chance in hell. He'd even offered her the same courtesy – something she'd called 'progress'. Their relationship now ran without the racism, she was no longer the 'demon slut' but… well Ruby. And he'd even bothered to remember her traits and habits, knew how she liked her coffee, always ordered her fries when they had a takeout, would always get the shampoo she liked from the corner store before they'd stop over at a motel because he knew she was funny about her hair. He even put the toilet seat down for her – something her brothers didn't even do.

She ran a hand through her hair, tugged a little at the roots, rubbed the sleep from the corners of her eyes as Sam polished off another brine soaked sausage, buns having long been demolished. The lines were becoming blurred and she didn't like it. Sam would kill Lilith, that was certain. But after that – what was there? She knew their plans for him, what he'd become. She knew where she'd stand in the coming storm, by his side, taking Lilith's place as the best of those demonic sons of bitches if she could get around to knocking Samantha off her freaking high horse. But her and Sam – what were they? What would they be? Where they even anything? It wasn't black and white anymore, not something she found she could deal with. But it was a bridge she would cross when it came to it and, in the meantime, Sam was beginning to run out of food again.

_Danny's Bar, Sedalia, Missouri 5.31 p.m._

_Friday 3__rd__ October 2008_

The night she'd left hadn't exactly made her list of top ten favourite nights of her life. The worst part – telling Meredith she was going it alone from then on out.

The night of her bath talk with Jo they'd come together as a family and eaten more food than she could ever remember eating, never managing to get full, Rebekah polishing off Meredith's when the little bird found she couldn't hold any more, even stealing slivers of chicken from Jo's plate whenever she thought she wasn't looking. And she'd eaten herself sick, Shane having to carry her back to her room yet again when she found she couldn't walk, beached like a whale on the soft cushions of the sofa where she'd swore she'd stay until the world around her would turn to dust, but her cousins weren't having any of that. So her cousin had carried her up and dumped her on her bed face down, Beck muffling a groan of a thank you as he switched the light off on her and shut the door, rolling out of bed as soon as she heard his footsteps hit the top stair.

She'd begun packing straight away, the hunter even resorting to Pulling things from her drawers and wardrobe to get the job done faster. She didn't like squandering what little power she had – but it had gotten the packing done in half the time and had still given her a handful of precious minutes to call her brother and tell him of her plans. They'd begun awkwardly, their last conversation having resulted in a car crash, but they soon eased out the creases when Jake realised that all was well, that no one was hurt too bad, that the hunt had gone to plan and Brookfield was better off for it. She'd told him then of her plans, that she'd Seen something that meant she was heading for a place called Danny's Bar, that she needed to get there to meet a source on the third of the coming month. And he hadn't asked questions (just as she'd hoped) because it was a Sight thing, and they'd said their goodbyes and left it at that. Had she felt bad for lying to her brother yet again? Of course she did – but to tell him that they'd lost one of their own, that Jo had almost come home without her spleen and that she'd gone all matter of downhill would've had him at her door and dragging her home by the scruff of her shirt never to do a job again – and there were Angels on the line, not something one could simply sweep under the rug and forget about. Added to that she was in no mood to retire, that being in the books if her brother ever caught wind of what'd actually gone on. Ignorance was bliss after all – that's what she'd told herself anyway.

Saying her goodbyes had been hard too. She'd awoken later the next day having spent the night trying to find the damned place, settling on a bar in Sedalia as it made the most sense. Her Sight was a pain in the ass but it was a logical one, and sending her to the other end of the earth wouldn't have been in her best interest. As it was Sedalia was about a two hour drive if she took her time, and that gave her a few extra days for some rest and relaxation and a bit of bodily re-tuning in terms of her – well all girls had to come on their period at some point. That was just life.

They'd swarmed her like they had that first day, though the weather on the Saturday seemed to have taken a bit of a nose dive, rain pattering as it did against the many windows and walls of glass the house possessed, the hunter nearly soaked through by the time she'd made it back to her brother's baby. There'd been more tears this time round, especially on her part, Richard and Jen and Lil and Siv and Shane all getting their dollars' worth of one on one time, Beck unable to count the number of hair ruffles, pats on the back and kisses she'd received. And she'd got kisses from the Pack too, from Sid and Cal and Elle and Ty and Ester and her own three even despite the fact they were coming with her. But when she'd come to Jo and Mer it had been a different kettle of fish, and as if on cue her blood-kin and even her extended family had caught on to the mood of things and drifted back to their lives and activities elsewhere, leaving the three girls alone in the ample porch wiping away their tears and trying to act as though they weren't.

"I need you to do me a favour," she'd muttered, almost unable to look at the two, one pinky finger interlaced with Mer (a comfort thing they'd never really escaped, something that had always marked an imminent goodbye), Meredith being, at this point, still unaware of her plans.

"What?" They'd both said in chorus, laughing lightly.

"Not you Mer," Beck had sighed, locking eyes with the other woman, "Jo."

"Anything," she'd murmured.

"I need you to take Mer and-"

The Stalker's face had fallen a little, "What do you mea – I'm not comin' with you?"

"Not this time Mer," she'd said, trying to remain firm, "It's a-"

"Let me guess – a Sight thing right?" She'd nodded. "Somethin' I can't possibly understand."

Jo had given Rebekah a look but she'd ploughed on regardless.

"I need you to take Mer and keep her safe. Take her home – her home or yours I don't mind. I just need her somewhere I know she'll be-"

"You got it."

"Stay out of trouble kid," she'd smiled, biting her lip as she'd ruffled Mer's hair.

She'd taken off then, dumped her things in the truck and pulled out the driveway. She'd only gotten halfway down the road before she'd had to pull over, rainwater mixing with her own tears as she'd sobbed alone in the front seat, Axel licking the water away from her cheeks with a warm tongue that would have made everything better if it'd been any other situation. She hadn't understood her sadness, couldn't grasp why her chest felt tight. At the side of the road she'd sobbed and choked off all the weight that had amounted on her back over the course of those last few weeks, held herself as she'd shaken, rested her forehead against the steering wheel so that no more tears would run down her neck and make her collar damp. Because she'd almost lost Mer and almost lost Jo, she'd watched a grown man die and had told a stranger his brother had lied to him. She'd been battered back and forth until she was bleeding and bruised and ready to fall to her knees and scream for an end, and she hadn't had a moment to acknowledge any of it. So, on that Saturday, truck parked in a ditch at the side of the road, rain pinging off her windscreen and collecting in the bed of the truck she'd wept for the one's she lost and the friends she'd gained and for the simple fact none of it had been fair.

And her time off had been nothing short of luxury, luxury in her books anyway. She'd slept brokenly for much of her first day in between the nightmares and the cold sweats, and when it had continued to elude her, taken a drive, stopping here and there for this or that, stocking up on supplies she thought she'd need, even pulling in at a beauty parlour on West 7th Street to have her hair done at a ridiculous hour having missed the way Eliza had treated it. It was different for men and women on the road, it always had been. Her brothers could have hit the road non-stop if they'd wanted to (Joe often had), not having to worry about toilet stops or how many sanitary towels that had left in their bag or if they had enough clean panties left to last them the trip. Her hunting regime had always had to wrap itself around her bodily functions and her social life. Joe had never cared if he'd missed a birthday unless it was one of theirs, but Beck had never missed one of Mer's, even if that had meant turning up at her door with blood still matting her hair, handing over a present wrapped in newspaper and tied with a crossbreed of ribbon and yellow police tape. So she'd allowed the (somewhat shocked) women of that particular quaint little business clean the dirt and blood from her nails, let them comb the dusty tangles from her hair and mask it in sweet smelling oils, even forking out that little extra to have it dyed a shade of brown that made her think of dark honey. And she'd felt better for it, as she always did, the hunter climbing back into her truck feeling less like a soldier and more like a woman.

She'd bought a dress she'd found in a Salvation Army Thrift Store on the main street, forcing herself (for once in her life) into something 'pretty' in a vain attempt to make herself look more presentable. It's not that she didn't like makeup and skirts and things, they had their uses and she wouldn't be seen dead in Tecumseh in her brother's battered jacket and her old boots, but that didn't mean she didn't still have to think about things like where'd she'd put her gun. And the clerk had almost thrown her out when she'd dumped her jeans on the seat and taken her pistol out the back, only able to shrug off the presence of the firearm when she'd flashed him a police badge and a quick wink. She'd stripped herself down behind the curtain and gradually stumbled her way through the various layers of fabric, able to get her arms through and her head out only to find, far too late it should be noted, that she hadn't undone the ribbon at the back. With a dress trapped over her breasts she'd struggled and shuffled and sworn, finally giving in and asking for assistance only after she'd head-butted the mirror twice. This had thus led to a rather awkward second encounter with said store clerk who, bless his heart, had helped her into the thing with averted eyes, Rebekah nodding her silent appreciation to his back as he escaped back to the job he was supposed to do. She'd bought it regardless of the embarrassment, irrespective of the fact it squashed her breasts to her body. It was a matter of appearance she'd told herself on exiting; throwing the wretched thing into the back of the truck before she'd pulled off and made for the simple safety that was her motel room.

"_You're late."_

Rebekah stood alone, bathing in the light of those all too familiar curling loops of hazy neon. She closed her eyes and hunkered down inside her jacket against the biting wind, sucking in air as though she'd never breathe again. The skirts of her dressed tugged against her legs as they gathered up the breeze like sails, her toes bare to the elements and numb in her sandals.

"Oh this is such a fuckin' bad idea," she muttered, dodging quickly out the way of passers-by.

She didn't know what she was doing. She'd gone over the plan again and again in her head but, when faced with the real deal, she knew she'd crumble. She'd freak out, perhaps even pass out, maybe choke out one word or spray her with spit or something along those truly horrendous lines. She hadn't a clue. It was an Angel – a freaking Angel. Her mama and her father had been God fearing folk, church types. They'd taken Joe and Jake and Jake had still held on to some of that, had his baby daughter christened, got himself married to Sarah at Saint John's in Sterling by the son of the man that had married their parents. But they'd never forced it on her; let her make up her own mind. And she'd believed just like all the other kids at her school, prayed in the morning and over lunch, were forbidden from using the Lord's name in vain – that type of thing. But they'd lost their faith along the way, as was the business. Every life they saw ruined by some hellish thing took them one step further away from believing in their 'good sweet Lord'. It wasn't long at all before she didn't believe at all. Oh, she knew there was a God, just like her brother had. Beck just knew him to be a good for nothing waste of celestial space who seemed content enough to sit back and watch his little pass-time piss all over itself and burn.

"Just – just say hello. That's all – simple as that. Hello. Hi there – no. Greeti – no that's fuckin' ridiculous. Fuck it – just go."

She clenched her fists and flitted past a couple of night revellers, hunter taking refuge in the doorway as she psyched herself up to actually lay her hand on the handle. She knew it, she knew what she was late for. She was late for their fucking meeting because she was too busy pissing about outside. She sucked in a breath, feeling herself puff up like pigeon, peeled her jacket from her skin and felt all the more vulnerable for it, ducking beneath a man's arm as he held the door open for her. She bobbed a quick thank you and slid inside, letting out a breath as waves of warm chatter and familiar sounding music washed over her chilled body. She remained frozen by the door, skirts billowing around her ankles with every updraft, eyes roaming the sea of faces for the one she'd branded into the back of her mind. She was looking for bright eyes and a pixie cut – not something that should have been too difficult. She recalled the way her eyes had shifted in the light of the neon, the angle the light had hit her. Beck turned, directed her attentions to the bar. Her breath caught in her throat. She choked.

"You're late."


	11. Chapter Ten: Ducklings and Cow Herds

**Recommended Playlist:**

_My Chemical Romance – Mama_

_Snow Patrol – Chasing Cars_

* * *

**Chapter Ten:**

_Greenville Cemetery, Greenville, Illinois 11:22 a.m._

_Friday 3__rd__ October 2008_

"We're just about to head off – to Pennsylvania of all places. We'll be careful I promise, but you know how these things are. With all due respect, I never thought I'd be saying that to you but hey – you're one of us apparently… or we're one of you –whatever."

It was funny to think how long it had been since their last visit, though this time the eldest Winchester had come alone without the usual company of his little brother, the kid back at the motel Dean had booked out for him, Sam probably trawling through endless amount of lore despite the fact they already knew how to catch and kill the freaking things. He'd slipped away with the 'low supplies' excuse, taking his baby round to the nearest florists, a little quaint corner affair with buckets full of blooms littering the sidewalk, snapping up a bouquet of wild white daisies and, on reflection, a red rose. The woman who ran the joint had given him a look women her age only ever gave younger men, the 'well-aren't-you-a-sweet-young-thing' glance that always came with a half-smile and a tilt of the head, Dean receiving a soft pat on the back of his hands as he paid for the flowers, nodding politely as he bid his hasty retreat. He knew what it looked like – what he looked like, a young man in his best jacket, fresh shaven face, hair having received the attention it more than likely deserved for once as he slipped into his overly clean car after carefully placing the bouquet across the back seats. He looked like a man on the way to see his girlfriend, young lovers still in that sickly honeymoon stage where the man bought his girl flowers and crap to show her how much he loved her – though he'd never quite got his head around that one. They were pretty plants that'd die and stink up the place after a few weeks, what the hell did they have to do with displays of affection?

"So I er – I got you these," he murmured, flicking the flaps of his jacket from his hips as he bent down, carefully laying the bouquet against the brown marble of the headstone. "I know dad used to get you daisies, I remember you putting them in a vase on the dining table or something – you said your mom used to do the same."

The boy knelt down in the grass, taking time out to carefully arrange the blooms so that that one red rose would sit perfectly in the middle. He was hyperaware of the dog tags he was sure were buried somewhere beneath his right knee, their own secret tribute in memory of their father.

"I'm sorry – really I am. We haven't been to see you in freakin' years and…"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, bit down hard on his lip to keep it all bottled in. He'd have thought he'd have a hold on it by now, but he could feel it collecting in his head, all the pain, all the panic, all the fucking drama that had haunted their asses for more years than he cared to remember. He clenched his fists hard against his knees, wind gently combing its fingers through his hair as he fought to hold everything back, everything he'd wanted to say but didn't have time to deal with, everything he had planned to say but didn't have time for.

"Mom – I don't know what else to do. I just-"

He wiped the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his shirt, bowed his head against the weight that had settled itself on his back. He ploughed on regardless, half of what he said garbled nonsense, other snippets and pieces laced with some sort of logic despite the rest being nought but a desperate outpouring.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, chocking back his words. "I am. The last time we saw you – Sammy brought us along and I didn't wanna' come – I didn't stay. I wanted to – boy did I want to but I didn't and that's what really matters doesn't it? I didn't stay. And he paid his respects to you and I didn't because we'd lost Dad and I had all this shit in my head that just seemed more important at the time but-"

Dean sucked in another raspy breath, his head aching, mouth dry and, for the umpteenth time, at a loss at how to carry on.

"But it wasn't – _nothing _is more important than this. So I bought you flowers and here I am," he laughed humourlessly, spreading his arms as if to reinstate his presence, "here I am kneeling in front of you and asking you – begging you to forgive me. I should have come more often – I should have come to see you and I didn't and I hate myself for not coming. Sam would have if I'd given him half a chance, but I've been keeping his so busy with my shit he hasn't had a chance either. And what does that say about me huh? What sort of _son _does that make me? Oh man-" he murmured, running a hand roughly through his hair, sniffing once to clear his sinuses.

He found himself laughing again, this time a little less darkly, though his hands remained clenched and taut against his legs, back still bent, head still bowed. He was honestly exhausted, chest tight and full of years' worth of repression, physically and mentally dragging himself through the mud simply because his head was too damn heavy to lift. But there was a lightness that now washed over his body, a cool breath that felt like sanctity, kissing and brushing his feverish skin as if to thank him for his honesty, as if to say all had been rectified. He didn't know if it was the breeze or not, but he comforted himself in the delusion that somewhere, above his head, his Mother was kicking Angel ass and keeping those sons of bitches in line.

"Oh shit – I have to be the worst son in the history of first born sons," the hunter muttered, taking a more relaxed stance, stretching his aching legs to the side in a bid to rid his toes from that pain in the neck static feeling you only ever got when you deprived an area of blood. "Sam on the other hand – he would have made you so proud. You know something – I bet he has… hasn't he? Or he would have if I hadn't have dragged him back into this mess. He could have been some big, smart-ass lawyer with a closet full of suits – apple pie life with Jessica and maybe even a kid. He'd be a great dad wouldn't he?" he murmured, eyes no longer lingering on his mother's name, "would have made a great dad."

That was the life he wanted for Sam, the only legacy of his mother's his still hoped would live on. Sam wasn't going to die all bloody like him – not again, not on his watch. He'd find a girl on their travels and settle down, a girl like Jess with prospects and ambition, buy himself a house with a white picket fence and an old SUV and get a dog or some shit like that that'd tide him over until they had a kid. Sam was the kind of guy to have a girl and, because he was a soppy son of a bitch, the kid'd end up being called Madison or Jessica or Mary or all of the above because Sam was like that, he thought things through like that. He'd get a job as an English teacher or a lawyer or a doctor or something awesome and leave Dean to his life, and he knew he'd be parking up across the street just to catch a glimpse of him mowing the lawn or playing baseball with his little girl. That was what he wanted for Sam – what his Mom had wanted for the both of them. It was too late for him but-

"I don't know if it's too late for Sam," he sighed, tilting his head back, squinting his eyes against the blinding sun. "I have tried so damn hard to keep him on the straight and narrow Mom I – I just don't know how much more I can take. He is going so far left when I'm dragging him right – and now there are Angels involved and they're threatening to bring freakin' Heaven down on his head if he doesn't stop and -"

_Your brother is heading down a dangerous road Dean. We're not sure where it leads. Stop it, or we will._

"You told me Angels were watching over me – that was the last thing you _ever _said to me and I lived by that for a good long time before life beat it out of me…we both did. I don't know if you've figured this out for yourself yet Mom but they are dicks – like _real_ dicks. I don't like swearing in front of you but _seriously _man," he scoffed, rocking back on the heels of his hands, fingers running through the blades of grass and coming away damp with dew, "they have some _serious _issues in terms of ego. You thought demons were bad – Jeez."

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his nose twitching slightly at the feeling. All around him the stalks of green grass shivered beneath his touch, his own body reacting violently to the change in the air. But he was accustomed to it by now, knew the feeling, could put a name to the pain in the ass static effect it had against his skin. The boy felt many things he couldn't quite put into words, his mood somehow encompassing the entire human emotional spectrum in a single breath, anger at him for intruding on what was _his_ place, a sense of puzzlement and intense curiosity as to why he was paying him a visit now of all times and the overwhelming urge to pluck his wings naked one feather at a time for both the former and the latter. But Winchester's were well known to be somewhat tactical, and so the coming of Castiel seemed to go unnoticed by Dean Winchester who continued on his lonely conversations with the deceased, all the while a small smile playing on his lips, a welcome reprieve from the tears that had stung his eyes only moments earlier.

"There's this one," he sighed, running his tongue over his lower lip, "that's a little…different. I don't get the son of a bitch – he's hot one minute and cold the next, like he can't make up his mind. And you know somethin'? Bastard even had the freakin' audacity to threaten your son."

"Dean-"

"Now don't get me wrong," he muttered, "Sam's turned into a bit of a fruit cake of late – gettin' all wrapped up with demons and shit, but Sam is still Sam and that's all that matters to me. But," Dean continued, feeling his voice get harder, words now sifted through teeth, "what everyone else doesn't seem to freakin' understand is that you don't just threaten one of us. I bet if you'd stuck around a little longer you'd have given him hell for spoutin' shit like that. But, since it's just me, I guess I'll have to be the one to do it on your behalf."

"De-"

He growled, "Because that's just the kind of _son _and the kind of _brother _I freakin' am? Understand?"

"You're angry?"

Dean turned, forced to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun that had baked his back near solid beneath the layers of his suit, dark shadows cast across his eyes as he forced himself to adjust to the piercing white light that enveloped Castiel's silhouette like a blanket. He could just about distinguish two eyes from the great black mass that was Cas's darkened expanse, trench coat covered arms hanging straight at his sides, hands open and peaceful compared to his clenched fists. He was such a fucking duckling, all open and vulnerable looking with mussed hair and ill-fitting clothes, a tie that he couldn't tie round his neck, collar open and off kilter. He was literally a child walking about in human adult form, barely even worthy of his livid tongue, almost (_almost_) underserving of the anger he so often directed towards him. It really had to be the equivalent of picking on the little dorky kid in the school yard, the kid with the glasses who always had his head in a book, the kid who'd raise his fists but never really throw a punch – simply because he didn't know how or didn't have the heart.

He sighed, "What do you think?"

"I think your anger and irritation is understandable for someone in your current predicament."

"Well you hit the nail on the head there Cas – now what d'you want?"

He was overly dismissive, even Dean could feel how bitter his own tongue tasted in his mouth as his words fell from his lips, though he felt no desire to withdraw them. He wanted to be alone with what was left of his family, his father below his knees and his mother beneath his feet, content with the fact that Mary was sitting pretty somewhere far above his head. Castiel didn't shift, even despite the hunter's blatant displeasure; instead he collected his hands in the folds of his coat and settled himself beside the other man, Dean barely registering his company as the Angel settled himself in the grass, legs crossed, elbows resting against his bent knees. Castiel squinted his eyes slightly, clasping his hands in his lap as his eyes roamed the headstone, brown marble reflecting the sunlight like polished metal, Angel reaching out and running his fingertips across its smooth surface, Dean regarding him patiently out of the corner of his eye. The Angel's hand lingered there a moment, attentions and gaze elsewhere before he retracted his hand and settled it back in his lap, bemused look returning to paint his face fifty shades of five year old.

"I'm sorry about your situation."

Dean huffed out another sigh, "I don't know what I can do with that but – thanks."

Cas turned to look at him, hunter feeling his gaze though he felt no immediate desire to reciprocate.

"I would not wish to find myself-"

"I get it Cas – you're sorry. Leave it," he snapped.

They sat quietly like that for a long while, side by side in the graveyard's grass. Neither of them made to take their conversation further, the Angel having the unique ability to turn himself to stone, chest barely rising and falling with every breath as though he'd simply switched himself onto standby to conserve energy. Dean would watch him every now and again for a few precious seconds at a time, observe him, try and understand him whenever he thought the duckling wasn't looking. He noted the tilt of his head, the soft slouch of his back as though he had the inability to sit up straight – as though he'd never heard of posture. He was one to talk though, sat as he was with his knees brought up to his chest, arm wrapped tightly around his shins. He could barely get over how peaceful it was, how quiet things were between the soft flutter of leaves in the precisely planted trees that lined the driveways, the rustling of grasses against their coats or the birdsong that drifted lazily over their sun-warmed bodies from the hedgerows far to their left. He'd never get that – he'd accepted that a long time ago, at the age of about sixteen. Dean, just like his father, would go up in flames on the traditional funeral pyre, the mark of a hunter, the demolition of all remains and therefore the erasing of an identity, never to be found, never to be tracked, no record of an existence. He wouldn't have a headstone dictating his name, age and the sentiments of those who'd loved him, lucky if he got a crude wooden cross at the place where he'd fall, something he hoped Sam might visit more times than he'd visited his mother's. But it was nice all the same, to bask in the light of his mother's resting place, at least for a little while.

"Do you speak with her often?"

It was the hunter's turn to make eyes at the Angel, though Castiel's concentrations still remained elsewhere. Dean shrugged, settling his chin against his knee, eyes hooded against the hazy weight of day.

"Sometimes," he murmured lightly, absentmindedly adding, "When I think she's listening."

"Would you like to know something Dean?"

The hunter closed his eyes, barely able to hear the world outside the drone of the bees in his ears. He growled low in his throat in response, neither a confirmation nor a dismissal of the Angel's question, happy to let the child decide whether or not that meant 'yes' or 'no'.

There was silence for a little while, a pause that lead Dean to believe Cas had taken that as the latter.

"She's always listening."

_Danny's Bar, Sedalia, Missouri 5.33 p.m._

_Friday 3__rd__ October 2008_

They were ever such fascinating things.

They milled around and herded together like cattle, as if they required the company of others to function, as though they could not live simply off the heat their own body's generated. But there'd always been those with the ability to buck the trend, those that would observe, calculate, who had the ability to step away from the crowd to perceive and therefore understand. There was however no one there of that ilk that night, and Anna found herself incredibly alone in her independent scrutiny.

Her fingers drummed against the table, the Angel taking another sip of her drink as her eyes roamed the room. She'd procrastinated in a way she had never done before, taking her time, wandering about the Earth aimlessly in an attempt to pass time. It had been a good week or so since she'd met with her brother and, as always, time ran ever so differently in her world. With days spanning months and weeks elapsing into mere hours at their fancy she'd been everywhere and anywhere at her leisure, revisiting places of her past, a hillock she'd adopted as her own in Persia, roamed the streets of Calcutta, immersed herself in a Scottish Loch so cold it'd turned the skin of her vessel blue. But it hadn't been enough to consume the time, and as her days had dragged on she'd found herself becoming more and more irritable.

So she wasn't in the best of moods to say the least. She shivered a little in her coats as the door opened a crack, bell tinkling in the back to signal the exit of customer and – the entrance of another. Her wings twitched at her back, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She could smell her already, a heady mixture of pulsing blood, rose scented soap and honey. Chemicals and other foreign scents clung to her in amidst the others, exhaust fumes, hair colorant, leather, gun oil, another that she couldn't place her finger on, and something that made the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle. She emptied her bottle, pushing it across the bar and beckoning the keeper for another two.

"You're late," she muttered, only then turning in her seat to catch her eye. She frowned.

"I er-"

"You're better presented than expected."

It was her turn to frown. "Excu-"

"I have familiarised myself with your file and am therefore used to other attire. The dress, although second-hand, is a surprise."

The Principality's eyes roamed the girl's body none too covertly, content to watch her squirm beneath her prying gaze as she sized her up for all the faults she'd attempted to hide beneath swathes of swiftly applied make-up and chemical scents. Human females she often found were far more fascinating creatures than men, each one containing a different brand of depth males could never seem to grasp. Men were primitive creatures, driven by urge and desire. Their basic behaviours were built on foundations of instinct and socially constructed notions of alpha-masculinity, leading each and every one of them to similar conclusions and ends, thus leaving them far too predictable for her to waste her time on. Females were however, a far different story.

It was taller than she expected though as lanky as its photographs. She was entirely deer-like in every conceivable sense of the term, wrists so small she doubted she'd find bracelets or shackles to fit her though, if you took the time to observe, muscle rippled beneath the skin whenever she'd shift as gently as a wave would lap the shore, a subtle hint of some sort strength but a form of strength all the same. The cosmetic alterations to the child were plainly obvious, hair colour recently altered, nails far too perfect not to have been done recently though one had already been chipped at the corner. And Anna noted the trauma; saw it written across her body both physically and mentally. Scars littered her skin in (what would look to the unseeing eye) the most random of places, though patterns would emerge if one looked closely enough and then had the mental capacity to process such information. Cuts across wrists, silver slivers of scarring across neck and shoulder just managing to peak through voluminous waves of honey dyed hair, attacks made in a bid to kill and maim. They were the badges she'd seen worn by many a hunter in her time, though such things had often scarred the bodies of beaten down veterans and not the fragile thing that stood before her shivering beneath copious folds of unnecessary fabric.

"I'm guessing a cider will suffice although, as you are menstruating, I am unsure as to whether or not the alcohol will have any adverse effects on your pain medication."

She seemed dumbstruck, mouth hanging open wide as though it was her aim to catch as many flies as physically possible for a stationary human. Anna made to spur her on, looped a finger through a strap on the girl's dress and tugged gently, using her other hand to pat the seat at her side. She tried not to smile as the great lanky thing stumbled forward like a deer on ice, feeling the tremendous weight of second hand embarrassment fall into her lap as she hauled herself into the stool that sat spare and waiting for her, Anna fully aware of how all the words she'd psyched herself up to say had fallen from her tongue as soon as she'd opened her celestial mouth. _They were so entirely predictable..._

"I'm guessin' you know who I am."

"Ah – it speaks."

Despite her sarcastic tone she was pleased it had plucked up the courage to address her, even if her first fully formed sentence had been a question and not the introduction she'd hoped for. Its accent was far thicker than she'd expected however, and her own seemed to it like a crisp white bedspread would seem in comparison to a well-worn comforter.

"I however – well I haven't had the pleasure of readin' up on your good self."

"You'd find nothing even if you'd had the brains to make an attempt," she muttered, returning her attentions to her drink.

"Well," she coughed, clearing her throat, "I guess-"

"Also a fruitless endeavour. You'd never come close to-"

"Now you listen to me-"

The Angel raised an eyebrow, only offering the girl any courtesy in an unspoken dare for her to continue in her current tone. She noted how the little thing had clasped the bottle between her palms; palms Anna guessed were slick with her own sweat and were currently in the process of cooling against the glass dripping with condensation. She nibbled her lip, brow furrowed, fingers plucking gingerly at the cider label as she calculated how she'd continue, Anna noting how hyper-aware she was to every single movement occurring in their immediate area. A highly predictable quirk found in hunters and beings of her ilk, but a fascinating quirk all the same. In the end, the Angel felt pleased that the girl's tone had remained the same, that of a young child standing up to its parent for the first time, an assertiveness that walked the line of nervous and skittish, entirely delectable for the Principality to observe though, at the back of her mind, she was just happy to see that the girl has balls after all.

"I have driven Lord knows how many miles and bled more times than I wanna' say just to find and meet you – least you could do is give me the courtesy-"

Anna shrugged, "courtesy is something earned, not something given. You can keep your courtesy country girl; I've no need for it."

That seemed to have sucked the wind from her sails at least a little, leaving the girl with no stable floor to stand on. She knew she was pushing her luck, testing her boundaries. She may have been given the orders from Michael but that didn't mean she had to follow them to the best of her ability, nor did it mean she had to like the task she was given. A Charge meant far less time doing her Father's work and more time babysitting a soft-tissued, snot-nosed brat of a fledgling who, by the looks of things, had discovered lip gloss for the first time and gone to town. The girl at her side shrugged and took a swig from her drink, emptying far more of the bottle than the Angel would have deemed possible for thing like her. The hunter slammed the bottle down against the counter and smacked her lips in a bid to show her contentment, though Anna was unsure whether or not it had been for her benefit.

"So you know how I am huh? Tell me – enlighten me."

"You really want to do this sweetheart?" she sighed, burying her hand in a bowl of trail mix.

She ran a hand through her hair, shrugging again, scents of shampoo and sweet smelling oils just about penetrating the overpowering stenches of alcohol and sweat that wafted over from the bar's others occupants, a welcome relief to the Angel who'd spent more time than she'd care to remember in that place waiting for her Charge who'd actually had the audacity to turn up for their meeting late.

Anna smirked, emptied her second bottle, and began.

"Your name is Rebekah Victoria Joyce Aston, names given to you by your mother, first being that of your great grandmother, second that of your grandmother and third belonging to your mother's sister. You have your father's frame but you inherited your mother's breasts, a fact you've never come to terms with considering the fit of the dress you bought on a whim from the thrift store down the road though – ah – you've walked in new shoes the past few days in a bid to wear them in and have only gained a blister on your right foot four your efforts," Anna cut off, motioning to the bar keeper for another drink, ignoring the slowly darkening expression on the young woman's face at her side as she wrapped her hands around another chilled bottle. "Where was I – oh yes. You wear make-up despite having no desire to do so, the lip gloss is not your shade and has therefore been borrowed from a friend and or stolen. Knowing you it's the former. The jacket you wear isn't your own. It's far too big for you – far too well worn. An outsider would say a lover's but I know it to be your brother's. There is a blood stain on the left lapel that has never washed out," The Angel murmured, only now beginning to feel the weight of her words, eyes flicking from the garment momentarily to observe their effect, "but you're aware of that – aren't you."

"I am," she whispered, gaze never wavering, eyes dark. "Is that all?"

"All that I care to divulge for the time being."

As she'd admitted before, women were a different story altogether, beings made of complex emotional ties and grudges that spanned more time than they themselves were aware of. They were walking maps of passion and ambition, trapped and held back by memories and feelings that men of their kind could sweep beneath the rug and be done with. But women weren't like that; they retained information like a sponge would water, soaking up experiences and never letting go. And that was all Anna saw when she observed the sad, broken little fawn that had been put so randomly in her unforgiving Charge, a complex web of memory and permanent painful ties wrapped in a scarred skin. And, despite herself, she felt an overwhelming sense of pity for it.

"Seems you've got me," she remarked dryly, fingers still plucking absently at the steadily peeling sticker on the front of the bottle.

"Seems I do."

"So what does and Angel like you want with a girl like me?"

Anna paused, her lips hovering over the neck of her drink. She wasn't looking at her, head bent over her work as she dug her nails beneath the damp paper, label coming away in her fingers in mushy little bits that stuck to her skin and the table is greyed clumps, great swathes of hair enveloping her and the bar, shielding her from the Angel's sight. She hadn't realised she knew as much as she did, expecting her side to come to the table empty and for her to be comfortable sitting on the bed of knowledge she'd amassed. Now it was her turn to recalculate where she stood, something that sparked an interest in her that had sat dormant for a good long while.

"You think I'm an Angel – that's cute."

"I've seen alot'a things in my time," she murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear, allowing Anna a fleeting view of her face. She was surprised to see a small smile playing on the girl's glossed lips, a look that didn't seem to want to fade as she ploughed on, "I think I know and Angel when I see one."

Anna scoffed, taking a swig from her drink, emptying a handful of trail mix into her mouth, settling the flavours on her tongue.

"I suppose I can agree with you there."

"At least we're agreeing on somethin', though that doesn't answer my question."

Gone was the stuttering, quivering glob of human shaped jelly she'd been introduced to, Anna almost missing the tremendous upper hand she'd had in the situation. She was now faced with a young woman who'd collected her wits and had settled them about her, wrapped herself in a cloak of confidence that only a hunter would have, a hunter that more than likely had a few tricks up her sleeve to trap or maim a being like her (at least that's what the naïve little thing thought anyway). It was an interesting transition, the Angel finding herself becoming less disinterested in the task that lay ahead of her, glad to find that the thing that had been placed in her care actually had a spine and didn't need a rod shoved between its shoulder blades in order for it to stand on its own two feet.

"I suppose I owe you that."

"Only if you believe I earned it."

Anna smiled. She may even enjoy her job a little if things were going to continue in the direction they were going.

"I shall answer your query if you first answer one of mine."

"My mama always said never to answer a question with a question."

"Well – how on earth would you know that?"

She caught the intake of breath, realised a little too late the dark undertones of her words. Her Charge seemed to shrug them off however, Anna almost breathing a sigh of relief to see the dust settle, feathers twitching a little in her repressed agitation as she tried to make amends.

"I apologise. I didn't-"

"It's fine," she muttered, waving away her concerns. "I've had far worse said before. And in answer to your question, I've had black feathers clutterin' my brain for about a week or so now. Gettin' a bit sick and tired of it if I'm real honest which, by the looks of things, we're bein' with each other. So-" she smiled turning her seat to face the Angel, holding out her hand for her to shake. "My name you already know. I'm a Scorpio with three dogs, a drinkin' problem and a hell of a lot a baggage. Pleased to meet you."

Anna dropped her gaze, inspected the hand that was offered to her. She'd always said you could tell a lot about a person from their hands, from the lines that marked their palms to the gravel that sat beneath their nails. All she saw was as expected, a soul laid bare and gathered in a palm, offered to her in the most simple of human gestures. The Angel returned her attentions to the being in her Charge, the girl with the honey coloured hair and the thick dark brows, the hunter with the wintry blue eyes and a key against her breast hanging by a worn length of ribbon. She laced her hand through hers and clasped it tight, palm now dry and cool against her own, and a hand strong and assertive as it shook hers in their delayed greeting, skin calloused from work yet smooth from product, a young woman who took as much care of herself as she did those she cared about.

"I am Anna - I am an Angel of the Lord, God's Divine Retribution, and it seems, from this moment on, you are in my Charge."


	12. Chapter Eleven: The Hunting Months Pt1

**Author's Note**

**If you are Emily and you know who you are - please don't do the thing. I'm warning you. It is serious this time. **

**Wanted to try something a little different here. I haven't character hopped in a while, so I thought I'd give it a go all in one chapter. October and early November were pretty damn busy for the boys what with the rising of Samhain and Anna Milton and all – so from an outsider's perspective I've found it interesting thinking about how their actions would affect the world around them e.g. when Samhain rose all those lil' nasties on the 31****st****. These are the Hunting Months, a chronicle of snippets that'll hopefully lavish each character with the attention I think they deserve.**

**Recommended Soundtrack:**

**Snow Patrol – The Golden Floor**

**Image Dragons – Demons**

**Adam Lambert/Jensen Ackles – Runnin'**

**Chapter Eleven: The Hunting Months**

* * *

_Unidentified_

"You like them – don't you Castiel."

The park was filled with the raucous laughter of children, mothers and fathers hovering on the sand pitted side-lines, some intervening in the happenings of their offspring, others simply chatting amongst themselves as they allowed them to learn their own lessons and mistakes. Castiel sat and watched them each individually, silently marvelling at the difference between them, the sheer variety in his Father's creations, how soft yet how hardy they were as they fell and got back up, how they ate bugs and shoved pebbles up their noses. The Angel thought this behaviour most odd, it was not normal and adult humans did not do it, so why did their parents simply watch them and comment endearingly every now and again?

"I find them – interesting. Do you not?"

"Interesting is a term I would use, I do admit, though I cannot bring myself to use it in the same context."

"Speak your mind Uriel," Castiel muttered, clasping his hands in his lap.

"They are too simple – too stupid."

The trench-coated Angel turned, brow furrowed and eyes hooded against the glare of the sun as he regarded his companion. Uriel watched the human children as intently as he himself had, though his face was bereft of the look of wonderment and intrigue Castiel's own had radiated. Instead, there was simply a stony expression, a nothingness that confused the little Angel more than the children making the conscious decisions to inhale beetles.

"Do you not find them complex?"

"Their inherent predictability would say otherwise."

Castiel sighed, returning his attentions to the area of play, a mass of twisted metals of assorted colours, heights and textures, all things that seemed to hold the attentions of human children. Castiel couldn't grasp why children amassed to a field filled with bars and chains, was at a loss why parents would even take their offspring to such a place and actually allow them free there. Surely there was the risk of severe injury? They could fall, contract disease – something? It took him a small while to process the utterings of the colder Angel at his side, content as he was to observe the interactions of the earth-walkers, but something itched at him, something he couldn't quite shrug off. He took his time with it, mulled it over like a fine wine on his pallet, but eventually it dawned.

"You're still angered by the events of-"

"I am not angered."

Castiel raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. He elected not to push the situation further, but his brother's irritability was clear to see, thus proving his conclusions affirmative.

"Your own actions have confirmed my suspicions Castiel."

"And what would they be?" He muttered, query a half-hearted gesture to appease the man he shared a bench with.

He seemed smug, arms crossed over his chest, eyeing up the Angel with a look that just scraped past contempt.

"You're too soft."

"When has compassion," Castiel muttered, turning to face his accuser, "ever been-"

"You could find yourself compromised in times to come Castiel," he warned, eyes now turned away from the bristling Angel, "I say this because I want what is best for you."

At this point, Castiel hadn't yet come across a reason to dislike the 'Specialist'. Uriel was one of the more humorous of his kind, had a way with words and knew how to get a task done quickly and cleanly with little after effect. But there was something there, something the little Angel couldn't put his finger on, that gave the man an edge he didn't quite like, something he found himself shying away from. He felt ill-at-ease in his presence, shifting in his own skin, never comfortable to have the Angel at his back. So why Uriel had his best intentions in mind was beyond Castiel who, like all others of his kind, had long ago accepted that an Angel's own needs and intentions came before any other's save those of Heaven or those of the humans they'd been tasked with.

"I have not been compromised," he put simply, quietly observing a father bend down to scoop up his bawling infant, mother taking an antiseptic wipe to a graze on its knee which seemed to be causing all the fuss.

"Oh Castiel," he rumbled, smile lightning his lips in all the wrong ways. "I never said you had. Just that you would."

_Unidentified Motel, Unidentified, 1:07 a.m. _

_Thursday 23__rd__ October 2008. _

She couldn't remember his name. It had sounded to her like James – maybe even Jamie… Jason? For the life of her she found she couldn't recall it, swimming as she was in alcohol, blood pumping with the stuff, senses drowning in it. But she was alert to the hunger, constantly hyper aware that she was returning yet again to that state she feared so wholeheartedly, mouth dry, chest arid and tight and her body aching with desperation and a thirst that could not be quenched. And she was an Aston, and so when water and juices could not fix it she'd turned to drink, much to the Angel's dissatisfaction. But that was how things were, how things had been for at least the past two weeks. And, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, things didn't look as though they were going to be changing any time soon.

He fucked her relentlessly, hands hard against her body, marking it, claiming her, nails and teeth against skin and flesh as they clawed at each other like animals. The water was hot against her skin, tiny pin pricks of searing heat to match those rippling up from beneath, boiling her blood, making her body sizzle beneath his every touch. She didn't know who he was, remember his name, know his job, his favourite colour or the name of the dog she'd spotted in his back yard. All Rebekah knew was the fact he was incredibly 'thankful' for her ridding him of his spirit problem, an appreciation that had resulted in the client asking her out for a drink, a drink that had turned to many before they'd stumbled arm in arm back to her motel room, only just making it fully clothed to the front door as she'd fumbled with her key, his hands already having snaked their way beneath her shirt.

_Jordan – that was it_. His name was Jordan Carmichael.

Her job didn't often result in such perks, so Rebekah had promised herself a long time ago that when an opportunity such as the one she was currently partaking in presented itself she'd grab it by both hands (so to speak). And she certainly had. He'd been a pretty young thing, a Catholic boy, fearful, shy, a little quiet until you got a drink or two down his neck. But she liked them like that, didn't find herself drawn to those who had a little too much to say for themselves. The naïve ones didn't ask questions, didn't play you or try and lead you in a certain direction. Yet, she always found they shared the same passions and drives as those that knew how to work a situation, and so she got the best of both worlds, a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut yet still had all the knowledge and the tools to make her come undone.

They'd been beneath the showerhead so long she'd lost track of time. When they'd finally stumbled into the bathroom, bodies already fully intertwined, limbs knotted, lips even more so it had been twilight, a warm October evening settling on their skin in sheens of sweat and dust, something they'd both silently agreed had needed washing off even before they'd begun the arduous process of peeling back their layers, a trail of shirts and jeans and underwear marking their path like arrows on a road. And she'd lead him there, tempted him behind the curtain with soft touches and sweet kisses, trapped him there with her sinful words and a more than willing body. And that boy had complied, had allowed himself to be driven into a corner, to be preyed upon by the older and far more experienced party who'd looked upon his lithe and naked form with lust in her eyes and hunger on her tongue.

But the water had long ago numbed her skin, the pitter-patter of water droplets against her back and shoulders barely even registering with her as he drove her back into the corner, tailbone connecting sharply with the white wall tiles sending stinging sensations reverberating throughout her skeleton, shaking her from the inside out. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist as he pressed his body against hers, one hand combing its way through the roots of her hair before anchoring itself there, the hunter letting out a dull growl as he yanked her head back, teeth harsh against the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. The inexperienced were always so explorative, willing to try anything as they were, unsurprisingly, new to the vast majority of it. He'd gained independence from her remarkably quickly, something that had impressed her though Rebekah had never voiced it out loud, and she'd found her domination shockingly short-lived as her 'client' had turned the tables on her. But she didn't mind that – didn't mind it at all.

Her hands were everywhere, never able to find purchase enough to sate her. They raked their way through his short hair, her nails biting into his back and shoulders when she found herself teetering on the edge, always returning to cradle his face when he'd return to fucking her gentle, forehead against forehead, cheeks flush and lips even more so as they'd share a kiss, two bodies rocking against one another like waves. She teased his tongue into her waiting mouth, made him taste her, forced him to experience what she knew his girlfriend had never been able to offer him, the pretty little thing with the chastity ring that had been the first on the spirit's hit-list. She knew what she was doing, was well versed in the art of breaking vows and forcing others to do the same. She'd slept with married men, taken men, broken men and sworn men – all of the above either more than happy to reciprocate gratitude with sex or simply to get information or access to or for a job. It was the way of her world, so that chaste soul of yet another righteous man didn't weigh too heavily upon hers. A little it had to be said, but not much.

"Will you be gone in the morning?" he exhaled, breaths heavy and warm against her ear.

"Yes," she murmured, recapturing his lips, "We have another job we need to get to."

"We?" he breathed.

He nearly dropped her when the shower water turned cold, their breaths stopping and starting with the shock of the sudden change, bodies barely able to acclimatise in time. Beck sputtered and choked back her shivers as they racked her body, forcing her even closer as she clung to him in a desperate bid for warmth. He too seemed somewhat taken aback, eyes wide, mouth even more so as goose bumps began to rise against his skin, her hands running over the erect hairs on his arms in a drunken fascination, blue eyes holding his wavering gaze as she found herself rolling her body against his, watching him wince a little as she shifted herself against his tender flesh. That seemed to break him out of whatever it was that had taken hold of him, his body reacting instinctively against her movements, hips rising to meet hers, arms wrapping tightly around her thighs, holding her to him as he returned to fucking her against the tiles.

"Rebekah Aston?"

_Shit._

Both hunter and client froze, Beck's teeth setting to work against her bottom lip, her nails digging into the boy's right shoulder as panic shot through her trembling body. She turned to look at him, met a gaze that mirrored her own though confusion and not alarm ran rampant in his. She kissed him quickly in a bid to reassure, ran her fingertips across his jaw, felt the stubble scrape against her soft skin as her fingers came to rest against his lips, a sign he shouldn't make a sound. He nodded beneath her touch; his wide eyes and mussed hair making him look even more angelic. She'd despised herself much later on for making such a comparison, realising only then how much that sort of thing did weigh on her.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you still awake?"

She shot Jordan a look but she needn't have worried, the man's face was white as a sheet save the flush in his cheeks, his body rigid beneath hers.

"I'm er – takin' a shower. Felt dirty."

It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Are you alone?"

_Double shit._

"Yeah?"

"Are you hell!"

Water erupted over their heads, chilling them to the very core, sleet following suite as the crazy bitch turned on the supernatural and froze the bloody water as soon as it exited the pipes and hit daylight. It was his turn to cling to her now, both man and woman closing up the space between their bodies to reduce their overall surface area, hail and sleet glancing off their shoulders to melt in freezing trails down their spines and ribs. She buried her face in his neck to stop herself from screaming, though all that seemed to come out were small fits of strangled giggles that he quickly mimicked, the sweet thing turning her body away from the primary onslaught of water to put himself in the immediate line of fire. She liked him – liked him very much. She was almost upset that she hadn't got the chance to find out his favourite colour or the name of the dog in the yard.

"Fuck this – stop that you son of a bitch!" She screeched, offering the boy a kiss in between. "What does it matter-"

"I laid down a clear set or rules when we began this venture Rebekah and I-"

"Fuck your rules," she offered back, her hands returning to his hair, her fingers tangling themselves up in his short curls.

"Now you listen to me-"

"Not a chance in hell," the hunter murmured.

Was she scared shitless that God's Divine Retribution was pacing the other side of the door whilst she was in the middle of fucking the virginity from one of Adam's sons? Yeah, yes she was. But, at the same time, if the Angel had wanted to harm her for breaking one of her petty rules she would have done the first time she'd done it, or the fifth, or the tenth. But thus far Rebekah had come out of every altercation fairly unscathed, though the Principality always found one way or another to exact her imaginative revenge, whether it was removing all manner of underwear from the premises until further notice or ridding her wheeled home of its chocolate shaped contents until cravings brought her begging to her knees. That was their game and that was how they played it, so her fear, although exceptionally real, would be very, if not incredibly, short-lived.

"Should we st-"

"You really think we're gonna' stop?"

Thus returned the shy, quiet, naïve creature she'd met five days ago, the Catholic boy whose jaw had nearly dropped at the sight if her at his front door, dressed as she was in her denim shorts and plaid, shotgun hanging at her back and dogs at her side. It took some semi-gentle coercion to coax him back into their rhythm, her teeth grazing his ear, dark and wicked things falling from her tongue as she felt him respond, electricity seeming to tumble from her fingertips as they danced across his shoulders and chest, pulling him into her. She'd have her way no matter how much trouble it'd get her into, she'd come too far not to finish her night on a high.

"Beck-"

She kissed him quiet, the kiss neither soft nor sweet, a moan escaping the confines of the barrier she'd created to trap all noise as she felt him come undone inside her, his body shuddering to a delicious halt. She felt herself unravel at the feeling, lost all sense of time and space as she threw her head back into the onslaught of freezing water, drowning herself in the heat that erupted throughout her body, setting every nerve ending on fire and causing sparks to ignite in the very pits of her being. It was a beautiful feeling, one she found was worth the sin, was worth pissing off one of God's own soldiers. His forehead came to rest against her chest, tip of his nose cold against where water had collected at her collarbone, breath warm and damp against her breasts despite the chill in the room. He stood ankle deep in slush and in hailstones, Rebekah laughing breathlessly, body still trembling. She planted a small kiss against his forehead before he lowered her down, a whisper of 'well done Catholic boy' just loud enough not to go unheard next door offered as verbal payment for the act, her body wobbling slightly as she leant against his.

"Are you happy now?"

"What d'you think?" She shouted back, leaning down for a towel.

She heard the sound of something soft brush up against the door, Beck wincing, knowing full well how the Angel would be bristling with anger like a pissed off pigeon, wings out, feathers puffed up. She'd be waiting for her on the other side, pacing, arms crossed over her chest, wingtips dragging across the lino and just waiting to sink her teeth into her and whomever it was she'd shared her company with that night. Jordan – oh Jordan Carmichael was as good as dead if she didn't screw her head back on and figure something out in time. With wrath in semi-human form lurking just beyond their wooden barrier Rebekah wrapped her boy in a towel, fingers lingering at his waist as she traced the lines of his body for what would more than likely be her last time, scanning it to memory. She stepped back and reached up to the window, unlocking the latches with a deft Pull, something that wouldn't have gone unnoticed if panic hadn't begun to take hold.

"Are you kidding?" He murmured as she motioned for him to climb out, his fingers fiddling nervously with the knot she'd tied at his hip. "Why can't I just leave out the-"

"Trust me on this one," Beck muttered, stepping back from the wall, away from the breaths of fresh air that threatened to turn her body to ice, "you don't wanna' go out there. _I _don't even wanna' go out there."

_She did go out there though… eventually._

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

How many times had she heard that to date? It had to be the eleventh time – maybe the fourteenth? She'd long lost count after the fifth, neither accepting nor throwing out the idea that there was in fact something seriously wrong with her, that the rules and regulations set down by a child of Heaven couldn't seem to penetrate the thickness of her skull, couldn't quench her thirst or restrict her actions enough that she'd actually take a step back and think. She didn't do a lot of that nowadays.

"You're the one with the problem not me," she muttered, scrubbing a hand through her damp hair.

She didn't dislike the Angel; they just weren't the 'two pees in a pod' companionship super team she was accustomed to. She'd long ago accepted her presence, accepted the fact that she'd been Charged with her, neither of them really knowing the reasons why but they'd come to terms with it as a pair all the same, Rebekah begrudgingly letting her ride with her in her wheeled home, letting her family loose on her. But she had known Meredith and Jo her entire life, knew their quirks, their personalities, their habits – things that took years to get to grips with. And other than her brothers she'd never ridden with anyone else, preferred her own company over that of other hunters or strangers, the companionship of her dogs and one night stands over other less frequent offers. And it wasn't as though the Angel had forced herself on her either, it just seemed as though she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Rebekah flopped down on her bed, body still trembling from its hormonal high though she felt herself beginning to float gently back down, shivering more now from cold than from pleasure. She realised then she'd tied the towel too tightly around her chest, a common mistake, the girl writhing uncomfortably on her front as she made to loosen it, allowing herself to breathe a little more freely.

"Well?"

Rebekah sighed, rolling her eyes so blatantly she could have sworn they'd made a sound.

"Well fuckin' what?"

"If you're going to act like a tempestuous teenager then-"

She snorted, "Tempestuous teenagers certainly don't fuck like that."

_Unidentified, Unidentified, 8.23 p.m. _

_Friday 31__st__ October 2008. _

Things certainly weren't going to plan.

Halloween was always fun, it was for all hunters. The Celts or Pagans or whatever had been right about one thing, the veil between their two worlds was certainly much thinner on the thirty first, leaving every hunter scrabbling around the trunks of their cars for whatever weapon they'd have to hand first to blow away the scum of the earth and the dregs of hell before they'd have a chance to munch on the multitude of ballerina's and dinosaurs that wandered the streets with their candy and their little to no supervision. It was like a buffet for the supernatural, kids wandering around chock full of sweet stuff, something Rebekah didn't even want to comprehend – how would that alter their taste? And she, like all of the other poor bastards in her line of work, had taken to the internet to spot signs of trouble before they'd really, truly begin to pull out all the stops.

The Angel had insisted on accompanying her, something Rebekah had refused to to begin with. She'd agreed around three and a half weeks ago, thought that having another pair of eyes on her back could do nothing but good in almost any given situation. But the Angel was as much a saviour as she was a pain in the ass, hunter deemed useless in a situation where nothing more than a click of fingers could render a spirit or a poltergeist incapacitated, leaving Rebekah sitting there on the sofa, legs crossed, gun and dogs at her side whilst she supped at a lemonade and gave her companion a sarcastic thumbs up. She'd not made that same mistake again, sent her away whenever a job had come up, thanked her for her time and patience and all but had made it sparklingly clear that hunting gave her existence a general purpose and without a clear path to ganking something she'd have nothing else to do with herself. It had taken some explaining, but on the third time the Angel had seemed to get the message, laid down the rules for the umpteenth time and Blinked out leaving a (rather pleased) Aston to her sabre-polishing.

But that was then, this was now.

It had been her usual salt and burn the bones thing. All had gone well, the path was clear and she could have done the research blind-folded. Clear cause of death, girl had been in a hit and run accident, taken it back out on the driver and his family, people that had covered for him and so on – family had even had the decency to create a Facebook wall in memory and actually bury the daughter instead of condemning her to the flames. There was no pissing about looking for lockets or hair strands or rings or all of the other guff they usually had her chasing after. No, this was the ideal case (if not a little boring). Grave had been easy to find, well-tended, fresh flowers, gorgeous, shiny headstone. And she'd dug that sucker up, Alistair at her side to lend a helping paw or two, cracked the casket open and doused her in lighter fuel, doing the usual intense stare at the match to make sure the damned thing wouldn't blow out (tended to if you took your eyes off it) and lit her ass up like the fourth of July.

It'd all gone quite swiftly downhill the moment she'd warmed her hands over the flames. It all didn't quite add up.

"Anna… Anna! Anna? Could use a little help here!" She shouted, drawing her sabre from the scabbard at her side, "if you're not too fuckin' busy," she added through gritted teeth.

She didn't expect an answer, rarely got one even if she pled for it, but this was one of those situations where no amount of training, no amount of studying or practice could ever prepare you for. Because it was common knowledge that burning a spirit's body would send it back through whatever door it had refused to go down in the first place. What her training or Joe's notes had failed to cover was what to do on the rare occasion the spirit decided to pay you another visit.

"Oh this should not be happening," she hissed, treading steadily backwards across the soft loam of the earth beneath her feet, freshly turned over grave dirt and turf a serious tripping hazard for someone as pathetic as her.

It bared its teeth at her, mouth blackened by decay and ectoplasmic remnants. The air was cold, hairs rising on her bare arms, grip of her sabre slick with her own sweat yet dead and frozen in her grasp. Her body was illuminated by the burning fires of her own remains, Sarah's eyes regarding what had once been her for a brief moment before turning her wild gaze back on the person that had tried to condemn her to her secondary death.

"Well this is awkward," Beck murmured, running a hand through her hair.

A gust of wind threw her off balance, the hunter falling back into the welcoming embrace of a bush as the very Angel she'd wished for Blinked in that little bit too close for comfort. Thorns and branches tugged and snagged at her clothes and skin, Rebekah bringing a hand up to shield her eyes from their damaging attentions, swearing under her breath as a firm hand wrapped itself around her ankle and tugged her non too gently from her cage, arms crossed over her chest, completely, one hundred per cent done with the entire situation. She opened her eyes the moment she felt herself come to a standstill, hair tangled and tugging at her scalp, thorns pricking her nine ways from Sunday in places she didn't even want to think about. Above her, eclipsing her world and the twilight that yawned around them was the face of an Angel, blue eyes, black hair and an expression that would have beamed smug if it weren't for the situation they were in. This struck a chord in the hunter, chilled her to her very core for reasons she could not yet even begin to imagine. The Angel was… worried?

"You need to go," she muttered under her breath, eyes roaming the steadily darkening graveyard.

"Why? I'm not do-"

"Don't test me on this child," she snapped, gaze pinning her to the ground, Rebekah squirming beneath it like an ant would a boot.

There was an urgency to her voice that stilled her tongue, a frantic quality to her tone that meant anything other than blind obedience would have to take a back seat. It was remarkable how much younger she became, how much weaker the scent of fear made even the most powerful being. Anna Elizabeth Partridge was eons old, older than the gnarled oaks that lined the paths of the graveyard, twisted branches leering at them like the hands and eyes of men, older than the dust and dirt plastered to the bottom of Rebekah's boots. And the hunter hadn't known her long, a mere blip on the Angel's timeline, another face, another name, another soul to sit amongst the millions of others she must have touched in her time. But there was something about her, something in the way she held herself at that very moment, that had the hunter fearing for her life and, dare she say it, the life of the Angelic thorn in her side that had managed to do what Rebekah could not, banish the evil thing back to its rightful place.

"We need to go – somewhere safe."

She was garbling all sorts of things to herself, place names, time zones, eras long gone and yet to come.

"Anna," she hissed, pushing up at her from where she'd leant over her body, Angel snapping out of her own mind to reach down and lift her, hands intertwined, touching each other for the first time in a way that was not bred of violence or of punishment. Rebekah recognised the look in the Angel's shifting eyes, red to blue to purple and back again, had seen the look a million times before when she'd been hunting with her brothers. It was a look she'd worn herself more times than one, though she'd never seen it on herself, more on the faces of Jake and Joe as they'd watched her fight the beings of hell, watched her fall, watched her fail. It was a look of pure, unadulterated concern – and it made her feel sick to her stomach.

"What's wrong?"

Her words were frantic, as though one breath wouldn't be swift enough. "Samhain – they have risen Samhain."

_The Victoria, Salem, Washington 6.38 a.m._

_Sunday 2__nd__ Novemeber, 2008._

Sam couldn't sleep.

His mind tossed, his body turned, every moment spent unconsciously or subconsciously thinking over his conversations with that winged son of a bitch a few days previous, wondering where on earth his life had taken a left turn to a pile of shit. He knew he shouldn't have done it – knew they'd asked him not to. But what else could he have done? What had they expected him to fucking do? They'd had dozens of kids next door unaware that the baddest of bads had taken over their teacher and had been in the process of raising all matter of hell from beneath their feet. They'd have died, Sam wouldn't have been long after and then that left Dean. So what was he really supposed to have done – seriously?

The boy was haunted by it however, the look of horror on his brother's face, the look he'd caught this time round as he'd bled trying to pack that thing back to hell. A mess, a freak, something they'd hunt themselves if it had been anyone else doing the same but no – they made an exception… because he was Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood. Oh how he'd hummed with it, how it'd bubbled in his gut and fizzled through his veins, lighting him up from the inside out like a firework. The sensation it created in his abdomen felt akin to sex, the burn of his throat similar to the warmth of a strong whiskey. It was no wonder he was addicted, blindingly clear why he still hung on, why he yearned for it. It was a permanent afterthought, festering at the back of his mind, scorching the backs of his eyes until he felt as though he'd be blinded by it. But he'd had a hold on it until then, until that son of a bitch Samhain had forced his hand.

He drowned himself beneath the power of the shower, water long ago losing its warmth. He couldn't sleep, not even with her teasing his hair. Even she'd slept, eyes heavy, day apparently long and arduous enough that her vessel had found itself worn and exhausted. His head was heavy, body a dead weight, but it simply wasn't enough. His mind was a chaotic mess of' what if's' and 'wonder why's', all the things he could have done differently if he'd had the chance, all the things he still had left to do and the choices he'd have to make when he'd have to cross those bridges. What had Dean experienced in hell? Why wasn't he talking about it? How long could he hack blood sobriety? Why was everything turning to shit all over again?

He closed his eyes, tilted his head against the torrential onslaught of freezing water, one hand leaning heavily against the cold tiles of the wall at his front, keeping him up. He'd just got Dean back but he'd never felt so far away from him, even when he'd been in hell and he'd been just about ready to sell his soul to join him. They'd been close then, locked in a dance blocked by two plains of reality, Sam walking that of Earth, Dean burning beneath his feet. Despite the opposition they'd had similar goals, hell bent on returning to their kin (pardon the expression). But now – now Sam had no fucking idea which way was up anymore. The old days had been so damn simple, Dad in charge, a clear direction, a clear goal, a home to return to despite it never remaining in one place. But things weren't like that anymore. Sam had conformed to fate's design and his brother and even the Heavens above his head had tried to stop him. But they'd failed and failed again – so what did that say about him?

He slumped himself in the corner of the cubicle, lights buzzing above his head, far too bright and light far too white for a time so early, for the mood he'd found himself in. He rested his forehead against his knees, water pooling against his abdomen, toes submerged in the growing tides. The pitter-patter of water against his back had long ago begun to hurt, pricks of a numb kind of ache he didn't really understand. The feeling spread across his shoulder blades, each matter of contact sending a small shiver down his spine. But it was surprisingly therapeutic, rhythmic, a metronome that kept his tired soul in check, so much so he found himself drifting, head lolling against his crossed arms. It was nice - a numb kind of clarity.

"_You've been warned twice now". She looks at you, eyes wide, soft hands steady around your own outstretched, gun shaking. She closes them, tongue darts out, licks away the tears that drip across her lips. She trembles but her hands are steady. You say you're sorry, I hear it – the stutter. Tell her it's going to be alright. You son of a bitch. You can't do it. But she pleads with you – she's pleading right now. See it? In her face – the way her lips murmur that one word over and over and over again. She's saying 'please' – are you deaf? Shoot. Shoot her Sam. Fucking shoot her! "November second – it's an anniversary for you, right?" Look at her burn Sam, watch her. How she screams for you. I look – I can see. You can't do anything can you? Feel her blood on your face, feel the warmth. Feels familiar doesn't it – the heat? Picked that ring out special didn't you? Feel it in your pocket? That dead, dead weight. You kept the receipt Sam, I know you did. Wallet, second slot in. Can't bring yourself to part with it. How sentimental. She's never coming back – you know that right? Feel her warmth, the way she fit you so perfect, curled into you. You haven't got that anymore… have you?_

"_It's the day Azazel killed your mother – and twenty-two years later your girlfriend too. It must have been difficult to bear."_

Sam's eyes snapped open, a noise cutting through the silence of the night with an almost unparalleled force. It was animalistic in nature, a sound born from despair, a noise no human being should ever have to make. He threw himself back in shock, balance off, back of his head connecting sharply with the tiles sending all manner of stars and stripes across his vision. He groaned, screamed, shouted things he himself didn't even understand. He shook, dithered, body frozen, limbs stiff and screaming in protest. He scraped his hands through his hair, nails clawing through his scalp, water running red as it pooled yet again around him, limbs thrashing, displacement sending splashes of crimson tinted water up the walls and glass.

He was stuck – lost. He didn't know where he was, what he was doing, who he was. Sam Winchester just knew he hurt, knew nothing but the sting of the knife that had settled itself between the slats if his spine, wedged deep, point pricking everything of value he had wrapped inside his skin. The hysteria came in waves, incoherent whaling fading to strangled sobs, silence marked by the continuous sound of water sizzling in its own plunge pool. But it'd start again in no time, visions of fire lighting him up from the inside out, setting him alight, blinding him, lights above his head buzzing so intense he couldn't look at them. He forced his eyes shut, screamed against the thrum of fists against the door as they came for him, the scrape of nails against wood. Everything was too loud, too defined. The roar of the water was deafening, the incessant banging mimicking the beat of his own blood thrumming in his ears. It was maddening, infuriating, but he couldn't hear himself – had lost himself in it.

There was a crack, the sound of wood splintering. There were hands on him, touches that seared him. Fingers brushed his face, brown eyes in his peripheral. He shied away from them, distraught, out of control – no amount of reality leaving any mark against his own distorted sense of it. He knew her, knew what he thought of her, what he felt towards her. It sickened him, angered him, made his blood singe and the bile rise in his throat. But all he could see was burning, Angelic warnings, demonic cautions from a world so far gone it was almost sad. Sam pushed at her, naked body on its knees, chin cradled against his own chest as the water fell against the back of his head, scarlet streams running in rivulets down his chest and arms. She was screaming at him, hitting him, calling him, her hands fluttering against his shoulders and arms and face and chest, raking through his hair, trying to latch on and drag him out. But he wasn't there – not really.

In a breath she was gone, Sam's world caving back in on itself as his world returned to its cold clarity, silence deafening him, sound a mere afterthought. He'd lost it – something dark and serious and entirely human was telling him things he didn't understand, things he couldn't comprehend in his current state. But it nattered and nagged on regardless, relentless. Come back. Stop this. Get a grip. There's nothing you can do. But he couldn't hear him, couldn't hear that shadow of himself. The man that knelt and screeched in his place wasn't a creature that could be comforted or brought back. No consolation would ever come for there was no one left to bring it. He was alone in this, cast adrift and drowning in memory, sick with it, dead with the weight of it. And there was nothing he could do – nothing would help. No one could-

"Sam! Sammy? What the fuck did you do?"

"I don't know – I found him like that. Dean – Christ – make it stop! Dean – please."

Hands rested against his body, bolder, stronger, calloused skin against sweat-slickened. They did not hit him but they were not gentle, not like hers had been. There was no hesitancy, hands emboldened by familiarity, possessive and concerned in the way they turned him over, flipped him, searched and explored him. Wounds were discovered, bleeding staunched with a shirt removed from an acquainted body, warm, radiating worry. Arms enclosed around his body like a vice, stopped his trembling, stubble brushing his cheek harshly, sandpaper in effect, his own eyes fluttering at the feeling. One of those hands grabbed his face, forced his head, forced his hand, eyes open. Then there is nought but green to see, a constellation of freckles, water running like sweat down a face creased with concern.

"Stop. This. Sam – come back. Sam!"

He's shouting, voice loud. The roar of the water subsides, the sound of his own blood beating in his ears evaporating as scents of hard liquor and aftershave wash over him.

"Sam!"

Sam Winchester closed his eyes, forehead resting against the sturdiness that was his brother. Sobs racked his chest, an ache that never really shifts, face stinging with the salty touch of tears as they streaked his cheeks, marred his skin. But he is there, has been dragged back. The Angel no longer has a hold on him, nor do the memories he is hyperaware still stalk the darker recesses of his mind. There is nothing now save a hollowness in his being he knows will never really be filled, though he did find himself left with the embrace of the one thing that still tethered him to their ever-changing world, two strong arms and hands rough enough to pull him away from his own self-sacrifice, hands gentle enough to piece a human back together.

"I'm sorry – I'm so sorry."

November the second, a day of both loss and gain. Sam Winchester lost a love that day, the ring he'd kept in a box in the pocket of his jeans becoming obsolete, a constant, glimmering reminder of the woman he'd loved and left, the innocent that had succumbed to his world just like all of those that'd followed her. But he'd gained, and that gain had been brazen enough to step in amongst those raging red waters and pluck him from his own misery, saved him from the pits of hell itself. He'd gained Dean, he'd found his brother, and no amount of Heaven or Hell could take that away from him.

_Layby, Croy Creek Road, Hailey, Idaho 7.56 p.m._

_Monday 3__rd__ Novemeber, 2008._

His nose was wet against the palm of her open hand, tongue picking in between her fingers, at the web of her thumb. It went unnoticed save the odd scratch between his eyes. He understands though, doesn't ask for more. The others are in the back – she can't deal with them now. Sky'd just look at her, Axel wouldn't understand. He just wants to make sure she knows he's there – if she needs him. She doesn't.

Solace comes at the bottom of the canister of whiskey, her brother's, initials carved into the battered silver metal with a pen knife a long time ago, before her birth. The liquid is bitter, burns her throat, dries out her mouth. She can't get enough, it doesn't work fast enough. She's lost track of the time she's been sitting there, road deserted, heard nothing and seen even less in the hours she's been parked in the lay by. Dust is scuffed up by the wind that rattles the windows of her home, shakes her bones, makes her teeth chatter. It's a sauna, sun going down outside, windows fogging where her breath hits the glass at an angle. But she's cold, can't get warm.

She sees him standing at the door, opens it, runs into his waiting arms as he picks her up and whirls her around, hair flying, his mouth buried in the crown of her head. He smells like smoke, like exhaust fumes and aftershave. He kisses her forehead, cradles her head, Alistair jumping between his legs, licking the dusty soles of her feet. He's home. She sees him standing at the door, opens it. She doesn't want to. He stands there in the rain, face turned towards the sky. He can't look at her. Alistair stands at his side, fur drenched, paws dragging in the mud where they bleed. He's come so far. The jacket he holds loosely in his arms, hands it to her as he walks past, doesn't stop, keeps going and disappears down the corridor. She hears his boots in the dining room, the scrape of a chair, the metallic twist of a key in the cabinet and the clink of a glass and a bottle against the table. He's started early. She looks out, leather cold and dead in her hands. Shane leans against the truck, tries to cover her gouged out sides with his body – block it from view. Her fingers stroke the worn material, come away red. Her hands shake, she buries her face in it, breathes in his scent, smells smoke, exhaust fumes and aftershave. There's another scent, a bitter taste. Sulphur – there's blood. She knows then – it dawns. He's not coming home this time.

There's a flutter of wings in the back, two blue eyes appearing in the rear-view mirror, a shock of black. She takes another mouthful of liquor down in one, eyes streaming, tears running down her neck, dampening her collar. The look she catches in the mirror softens but she makes no move, doesn't touch her, just observes.

"Today?"

She empties the canister, throws it down into the foot well. Alistair fails to move, nudges her knee with his muzzle, brown languid eyes falling just below her own. She scratches him then, hands between his ears, stroke the fur, the softness, feels it as it was, damp, gritty, matted and full of added extras he'd picked up on the way home. At least he'd made it back…

"Yeah," she murmurs, head coming to rest against the cool glass of the window. "Today."

_737 Road, Sterling, Nebraska, 9.37 a.m. _

_Tuesday 11__th__ November 2008_

She felt good – surprisingly happy to be home. Familiar territory flew by either side of them as they cut through the fields that had once held bountiful amounts of crops, an assortment of things she just knew would be waiting for her in the markets in days to come, things that she could browse through till her heart was content – cook up something nice for her parents as an apology for being away from home for so long without any real explanation. She'd be in trouble alright, possibly face a grounding unparalleled by any she'd ever had before but one taste of her rosemary chicken and her father _may _look upon her a little more leniently – well that was the plan anyway.

She'd had no desire originally to return to Nebraska anytime soon, though responsibility had come a'knockin' taking her completely by surprise and pulling the steadily laid carpet she'd painstakingly created over the past month or so out from under her feet. It was the second Tuesday of the month however and there was a ghost to be letting in, a task Rebekah had never missed – the girl having passed up hunts in the past just to make sure the house and the grounds were free of salt and wide open for the poor thing to wander through in her passing.

Meredith hadn't seen her best friend in a while, just about content enough to receive the odd phone call though it had taken her weeks before she'd accepted them. Meredith Parkes didn't count herself as a petty girl, on the contrary she considered herself a high functioning human being who'd been brought up mature and proper, but their parting had rubbed her a little up the wrong way. Jo was fantastic – it had been like being with Beck regardless of her absence, but the two girls weren't exact. Joanna didn't have well stocked hidden compartments of chocolate and candy in her car, nor did she have a legion of furred beasts nipping at her heels or licking the palms of her hands whenever she reached into the back. Jo had taken longer than Mer had anticipated trying to get used to having a side-kick, unsure of what to do with her when she was working, scared of leaving her alone lest she set fire to something or shoot someone accidentally though the girl was more than acquainted with the art of weapon-wielding. Things had changed when Meredith had worked one of her own jobs and taken Jo along with her, the hunter taking a back seat as the Stalker had rid a house of a small gremlin problem, thus earning her respect enough to join hunts and offer input. It had been a while, but they'd finally come to some sort of mutual understanding.

"Are you _sure _she'll be okay with this?"

It had been the fourth time during their journey and the seventh time in total Jo had voiced her concern, seemingly unhappy and unwilling to leave her alone. Meredith sighed, resting her forehead against the window pane as they continued to eat up that tantalisingly familiar country beneath their wheels, squinting her eyes causing road signs and fencing to become a blurred mass in her peripheral.

"Yes I am sure," she drawled, plucking gingerly at the hem of her cardigan.

The truth was she was entirely unsure and, by the way Jo looked at her, worrying her lip between her teeth, it seemed as though she wasn't either. Mer knew it had to be done – wasn't exactly stoked at the idea of being at the Aston home alone to let down the wards in order to allow a supernatural being (the things they usually hunted) into the house, but was psyched nonetheless. It had to be done and she'd been in the area to do it – had hacked into Rebekah's GPS the day previous to check her whereabouts just to make sure she wasn't anywhere near. It'd have been pointless (as well as getting her into a lot of trouble) if they'd both been heading to sort out the house, so it made sense for her to do it in the Aston's absence. In her mind she was being a good Samaritan and that was all that mattered. So what if she was a little scared – it'd be stupid not to be.

"And you're sure we can trust this – Heather?"

"Heather Parkinson – yeah I'm sure _I _can trust her Jo. There ain't no _'we'_ about it okay? One – I can do this on my own. Two – you've got a hunt that needs doin' and it makes sense for you to drop me off one the way."

Jo seemed to grumble something though it was far too inaudible for Meredith to catch a hold of, girl passing off a small smug smile of victory as a cough.

"The **moment **you smell anythin' not right you call me okay? I swear to God Mer if anythin' happens to-"

"Yeah, yeah," Mer sighed, attempting to wave the girl's blatant concern. "I've got you on speed dial number two. Now will you just trust me? This happens every damn month – it's not like I'm divin' head first into a coven or somethin'. I'm lettin' in an old family friend and feedin' the damn cows for Heaven's sake!"

"Alright – alright," she conceded, though her grip on the steering wheel was still a little too tense for Mer's liking. "I just – Beck's my friend and I-"

Mer opened her mouth to interrupt but Jo put up her hand, her left coming off the wheel to run through her hair.

"Let me finish okay?"

The look on her face didn't leave anything open for argument, Meredith dipping her head slightly in acknowledgment of that fact. When it looked as though she wasn't going to interrupt further Jo continued.

"I was sayin' – she's my friend and now so are you. What happened up in Brookfield – things went to shit pretty damn quick and I didn't think-"

She bit her lip and turned her eyes back on the road, the grip on the steering wheel turning white-knuckle. Meredith allowed silence to wash over them, a silence that was neither uncomfortable nor tense but one thick with remembrance, of the man they'd lost and the things they'd learned. Meredith had always known that Rebekah was different – had something in her that wasn't quite right. Jake Aston had warned her about it a long time ago, told her she should be careful and that, as much as he loved his sister, that if Meredith knew what was good for her she'd run as far and as fast as she could in the opposite direction. But as much as it scared her she found herself pandering more to her curiosities than her senses of self-preservation. To be in the company of a living, breathing enigma was far more fascinating than any book she could read in school or anything she could discover in a lab setting – the girl was a walking, talking case study just waiting to be cracked open. And Meredith loved her from the bottom of her heart, loved her weird hybrid accent and her resolve and her alcoholism and her weird lifestyle unconditionally, even all the dark parts that she always held Meredith at arm's length from. So Meredith understood the look in Jo's eyes as she concentrated on the road as though it had the ability to hold her attentions forever – because they'd both almost lost one of the most important people in their lives that night. It just so happened Meredith hadn't been around to see it and, secretly, she wanted that to be the first thing to change.

"I know."

Jo threw her an appreciative look and continued. "Yeah – so you know what it's like. I just wanna' make sure nothin' happens bad this time round. She left you in my care and-"

"Hey I-" she began indignantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"_And_," she continued, casting her a warning look, "I am well aware you can take care of yourself but I am not – I repeat _**not **_losin' you or havin' you harmed under my watch. Okay?"

Mer saluted, ignoring the eye roll she could have sworn she heard rather that saw.

"Understood Captain."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I've found myself rather enjoying the experience of character hopping. Writing the Angels was a refreshing change of perspective, as were the interactions between others. It's something worth trying again. I personally have a little Jo/Mer ship going on in my head – they're just so cute together. I apologise now for the changes in tense – not only was I character hopping but I realise there were plenty of jumps from present to past too. Sorry. **


End file.
